Bounds of Freedom
by mahc
Summary: JED-ABBEY-ENSEMBLE 'Yin and yang. Give and take. The forces of life. Wasn’t that what it was all about, anyway' An alternate storyline for the China Summit
1. Tempting Fate

This story has 15 chapters, alternating POVs as the plot moves along. Hopefully, I have included a little something for everyone. Ratings vary with chapters, but at least one chapter is R.

**Bounds of Freedom**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

"And statesmen at her council met

Who knew the seasons, when to take

Occasion by the hand, and make

The bounds of freedom wider yet."

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

To the Queen

**Chapter One – Tempting Fate**

POV: C.J.

Spoilers: "Arctic Radar;" "The U.S. Poet Laureate"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not mine, but I'd like to get hold of them.

**The White House**

**Wednesday 11:45 a.m. EDT**

Despite being an intellectual giant, and certainly a moral one, Jed Bartlet, at 5' 8" had never towered over anyone physically, not even Abbey. But he came pretty close in that land of diminutive people, standing a half foot to a foot taller than almost every single person he met. C.J. Cregg, Press Secretary, watched the day-old replay of the American leader's heralded arrival to this last real bastion of communism and thought self-consciously that maybe it had been wise to leave her behind. She would have looked like some bizarre Amazon woman to these petite humans.

The news channels jostled for footage of the well-tailored American President and his striking First Lady as they graciously accepted the generosity of their hosts. Indeed, the First Couple looked rather like royalty, a rich and colorful splash of personality amid a dreary sea of monotonously gray suits.

A good look, she decided, ignoring the ethnocentrism of her thoughts. Physical stature and appearance certainly didn't guarantee power, but an amazingly large number of people in the world connected them. If Jed Bartlet looked stronger and more interesting than his Far Eastern counterparts, America looked stronger and more interesting. Besides, she couldn't have very well told him to put a lid on his charisma – even if she had wanted to. And they all carried the deep hope that that very charisma that had won him the presidency of the most powerful nation in the world, could influence the leaders of the largest nation in the world to move toward the opportunities of freedom for their people. Not since Nixon's trip in '72 had both countries brought such optimism and possibilities to each other. This could be a world-changing event.

But for the moment, kicked back in her office 36 hours into what was shaping up to be a PR boon, if nothing else, she was satisfied merely with the excellent publicity that a smiling and handsome First Couple presented as they strode down the traditional red carpet rolled out for them on the airport tarmac. She grinned at the television, unable to suppress a swell of pride at the center of her chest for her President and her country.

"Hey!"

With only a slight turn of her head, she noted that Josh Lyman stood braced in her doorway, the Red Skelton grin on his face, lanky body angled against the wood.

"Hey," she answered, clicking the sound on her TV to mute. "What's up?"

He sighed and gestured vaguely toward the screen. "Well, you know, with the President and Leo both gone, I'm having to deal with the intricacies and complications of the American government. It all falls on me. That's right – Joshua Lyman is in charge."

Turning back to the television, she observed, "Nothing, huh?"

Chest and shoulders slumping, he tossed himself into the chair by her door. "Notta. China's the news. No one's interested in anything else." He sounded almost disappointed that things were calm.

For a few minutes they watched the screen flip from anchor to recorded shot back to anchor, and then to more recent footage from earlier in the day of Abigail Bartlet sitting on the bed of a young patient in a Beijing hospital. The versatile First Lady, despite her crisp suit and trademark heels, had curled up next to the child and dedicated her attention to the book their both held. C.J. wondered how they had gotten so lucky. Usually Abbey went out of her way to avoid such staged publicity. But then again, maybe it wasn't staged.

Josh sighed heavily. "Why were we the ones who had to stay home?"

"Someone had to."

He draped a leg over the chair arm. "Yeah, well, why not Toby?"

"You written any speeches for the President lately?"

"What about Charlie? Charlie got to go. Charlie got to go and I didn't." It was a patented Josh Lyman whine.

She leveled her eyes at him. "Now you want to go and lay out his suits for him?"

"Leo's there."

She shook her head. "Face it, a China trip is for the Big Dogs, my friend."

The Deputy Chief of Staff raised his palms plaintively. "I'm a Big Dog."

"Yap."

Now he dropped the mostly-feigned hurt. "Yeah, well, you're an Irish Setter and you're still here."

But that was one thing she didn't mind. "Look at it this way, Huckleberry, the President and Leo are half a world away. If anything happens in the western hemisphere, you're the pooch."

He nodded confidently. "Damn woofin' right."

"Unless, of course, you want to count the Vice-President, Speaker of the House, President Pro-tempore of the Senate, Secretary of State – "

"All right. Now you're bringing me down."

She dropped her feet from their propped position on her desk. "You want something to happen?"

The flush betrayed his chagrin. "Nah. Of course not. Well, maybe just a little something. You know, miners' strike, or maybe two-thirds of the Republicans in the Senate suddenly decide to retire early. Somethin' like that."

"You know if Toby were here he would make you run around the Washington Monument three times and throw salt over your left shoulder or something."

"At least I'd be doing something."

"Be careful what you wish for – "

"Is that from _Peter Pan_?"

"_Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan_."

"C.J.," he exclaimed, "you're a closet Trekkie!"

"You'll never get me to admit it."

"Maybe I'll hook you up with Yeoman Rand over in the Bullpen."

C.J. had the feeling she was going to regret that impromptu comment. She knew _he_ was. "Let me know next time the girls in the Lemon-Lyman chat room get going."

"Shutting up now."

"Thank you."

They sat quietly for another few seconds, the muted screen continuing with the pomp and ceremony practiced for centuries in the ancient country. To be perfectly honest, C.J. was content to remain behind. As far as she knew there were no fiords in China – and maybe the First Lady would bear the brunt of the President's infamous trivia lectures – but you never could tell. With a twelve hour time difference, it was already late in Beijing. The only plan for the night was to fly to Xian for more visits and diplomacy the next day. After her afternoon briefing, she might even get to go home before dark. Well, perhaps that was expecting too much, but at least the possibility existed.

"They look great," Josh observed as the camera shot a close-up of the First Couple, now hand-in-hand as they climbed the majestic steps of the Imperial Palace.

"Yeah."

"Think he can do it?"

Freedom? For the last remaining communist country of any size? It was certainly a noble and ambitious effort, and she figured if anyone could come close it would be Jed Bartlet. "Yeah."

"Me, too," Josh agreed. "They going to Xian tonight?"

C.J. nodded. The trip included two visits to what the Chinese proclaimed to be the state of the art in medical facilities. The First Lady was particularly anxious to test the veracity of that observation. Their hosts had arranged for one of the top Chinese doctors to escort her. He had appeared in the background in several feeds from the day. C.J. wondered if the two colleagues in health could make more headway than the heads of state. Stranger things had happened.

She glanced down at her watch. Two hours until the last briefing. Her stomach rumbled. "How about some Puppy Chow, Clifford?"

Josh straightened in the chair, eyes brightening at the prospect of food. "Sure. I'll send that irritant of an intern out. Maybe he can find his way back without leaving bread crumbs. Sandwich?"

"And a salad. There's a place across from the OEB – "

If she had been thinking in that moment, she would have noted that the phrase "calm before the storm" would have certainly applied in their situation. As it was, her brain couldn't even finish her sentence as the sudden eruption of beepers, telephones, and scattering feet in the hallway tore her from her propped position and propelled her to her feet. She stared at Josh for a half-second before Carol's face popped into the doorway. It took only a glimpse to see the raw panic flushing her usually composed features.

"Something's happened!" she managed, but didn't seem to be able to go further.

Something's happened? Not good. Not very damned good.

Josh had scrambled to his feet by this time. "What?" he demanded. "What's happened?"

"Something's happened to the plane."

Despite the dire possibilities of that pronouncement, C.J. relaxed a little. Okay, something happened to a plane. She could handle that. It wasn't as if they hadn't dealt with plane crashes before. Certainly not a pleasant duty, but not a unique one, either. Get the details, send for a spokesman from the NSTB. Follow procedure.

"What plane?" she asked, taking a calming breath and getting her thoughts in order from the abrupt confusion. It was really only her job to report the reaction of the White House anyway. The FAA and NTSB would address the harsher aspects of survivors, causes and such. Unless – and she didn't know why this had not occurred to her before – unless it was a terrorist attack. Then they were in another ballgame entirely. Please don't be a terrorist attack, she threw in a mental plea toward Heaven.

Then she noted that Carol hadn't answered yet and an uneasy twinge of nausea tickled the bottom of her throat. That must be it. Damn it. Well, okay, she would deal with it. Do what she had to do.

Damn Fate. And damn Josh for tempting it.

"Carol," she asked carefully, a little concerned by how shaken her assistant was, even if it was a terrorist attack. "What plane?"

With a hard swallow, the other woman breathed, then swallowed again.

Trying not to be too impatient, C.J. grasped Carol's shoulders. Hoping that some of her own strength would transfer, she repeated, "What plane was it?"

The answer shredded her carefully layered calm. Suddenly C.J. understood.

"Air Force One."


	2. One Room Short of Divine Perfection

**Bounds of Freedom**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

**Chapter Two – One Room Short of Divine Perfection**

POV: Jed

Spoilers: "The Portland Trip"

Rating: PG-13/R

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.

**Air Force One**

**3:00 a.m. Tuesday, Beijing Time**

**Somewhere Over the Pacific**

Jed Bartlet couldn't sleep on a plane. By now it was common knowledge for his staff, and they had given up trying to persuade him to catch a few winks en route to whatever function lay before them. They had grown accustomed to seeing him bleary-eyed upon arrival, even though he always seemed to don the appropriate mask of calm by the time the fuselage door swung open.

It wasn't just his mild phobia about heights – not really. He had eventually come to the conclusion that it involved some fear of missing the last few minutes of his life. In case they went down, he didn't want to be snoozing. Illogical, but there he was.

It still hadn't prevented him from choosing night flights for most of his trips, though. That reasoning still held. Flying at night enabled you to cease to be earthbound and burdened with practicality.

It was poetic. It was romantic.

Of course, it also was when they had to leave in order to arrive in Beijing at a decent hour since the flying time was almost seventeen hours and that ancient city was twelve hours ahead of D.C. For an 8:00 a.m. Tuesday touchdown, they had to leave at 3:00 a.m. Monday.

He rubbed a hand over the scratchy stubble of his jaw. They were about five ours away from landing, which would make it 3:00 a.m. Tuesday – at least he thought that was right. You had to cross the International Date Line, which automatically threw you a day ahead – if you were going west, anyway. If you were going east –

He really should try to sleep.

But, as usual, he sat staring out the window into the graying black, wondering once more what chance they had – what chance he had – of bringing democracy to the massive nation of communists.

The deep seeds of idealism embedded in his soul told him it was going to happen. But the increasingly bothersome frost of realism threatened that dream. And it was damned depressing.

In fact, he might have worked himself into morose discouragement if it wasn't for one thing – the warm and sexy creature curled up in his lap at that very moment. Smiling, he placed a kiss on top of the dark head and stroked her short curls. Abbey never had trouble sleeping on a plane. Maybe that was the result of years of grabbing power naps on an office couch in between surgeries and patient visits. He wished he'd developed such a talent.

She stirred, and even though he hadn't meant to wake her, he wasn't disappointed. He needed her, if only just to be conscious with him, to stare out the window with him, to ponder the possibilities with him. Of course, if she was interested in other things –

"Hey," she murmured, pushing up from his chest and running a hand through her hair. "What time is it?"

"D.C. time, or Beijing time, or Wherever-the-hell-we-are time?"

The sleepy chuckle was both endearing and sexy. Not that he found much his wife did that wasn't sexy – even yelling at him. "Doesn't matter."

"We're about five hours out of Beijing, if that helps." He shifted slightly, in a vain attempt to jump start the circulation in his right leg.

"Have you slept?"

"Sure." Not very convincing.

"Liar." Smiling, she helped him out by switching sides, but stayed in his lap. "You have briefings soon?"

"Couple of hours." His tone was decidedly suggestive.

Instantly catching his mood, she cut her eyes at him. "Your plans until then?"

"Hmm. I could test my recently-acquired knowledge of the Peoples Republic of China on you." He tried to suppress the grin at her eye roll.

"Just what I was hoping." Sarcasm colored her tone.

He ignored it. "Really? Because I have done a little research on some of the sites."

"What a surprise."

"Seriously. And I'm happy to share my knowledge."

"Again," she smirked, "note the incredulity on my face." But the teasing in her eyes softened her words.

Secure in the knowledge that he had her, he decided to play a little longer. "Did you know, for example – "

She sent another eye roll hint his way, but he continued undeterred.

"Did you know that the Forbidden City complex contains 9,999 rooms, just one room short of the number that ancient Chinese believed represented divine perfection?"

And even though he would have been happy to regale her with his trivia, he hoped she would be led to attempt a distraction. Sure enough, as he rambled on about the various rooms of that palace, she grasped the edges of her sweater and, with one smooth sweep of a hand, tugged it over her head, revealing a startling red lace bra that fought a losing battle to contain her ample breasts.

Oh yes. "Speaking of divine perfection," he shifted, successfully and willingly sidetracked as he brushed a thumb gently over a decorated nipple.

The interest that had merely tingled in his groin earlier now buzzed into a full-fledged vibration. God, she was beautiful. "Abbey, we only have five hours," he reminded.

She smirked again and squirmed around to straddle him. "What will we do with the other four hours and 45 minutes?" she teased, running her fingers to his shirttails and dragging them out of his pants.

With mock insult, he complained, "You wound me, Abigail. I've never – "

"Well," she reminded, expression coy, "there was that one time after the Inaugural Ball for your second term as governor – "

He wagged a finger at her, fighting the urge to jump her right there. "Oh, no. Not fair. You teased me all night, woman, with your décolleté gown and thrusting hips while I was just trying to dance with my wife. It's a miracle I didn't come right there in front of the whole New Hampshire cabinet."

"You did look a little hot and bothered," she remembered evilly, slipping a hand down to unbutton his trousers.

"The paper the next day speculated that I had a fever, I was so flushed the whole night."

"Oh, you had a fever, all right. And it was a hot one, as I recall."

"Okay, Doctor Bartlet," he whispered, sexual frustration winning out over his patience. "I'm burning again. What's your prescription?"

"Let me just check your temperature," she said, but instead of kissing him on the forehead, she slid off his lap and unzipped his pants, gasping as his erection thrust out eagerly beneath the inadequate boxers.

After that, things progressed much more rapidly than either had planned. He pulled her back up so that she sat over his thighs and guided his aching arousal to press against her, satisfied to feel that she was just as ready for him to be inside her as he was to be inside.

"You ready to join the mile-high club?" he groaned.

Her breath was coming faster as she anticipated his entry. "Babe, we were members in that one when Nixon was President."

He grinned, remembering their hurried initiation into that distinct group. Thirty years made a difference. The Presidential Cabin on Air Force One provided a few more comforts than the cubicle of a bathroom on a 707. But that first encounter would be forever burned into his memory, especially the knowing smirks of the few passengers near the back when they emerged, breathless and tousled. Apparently, they had not been quite as discreet as they intended in the throes of passion.

This time, maybe the agents would be far enough away not to hear too much of the inevitable moans and gasps that accompanied their joining. Then, as Abbey moved against him, he decided he really didn't give a damn.

Apparently sharing the memory, she grinned and ground harder, forcing him farther inside. They both grunted at the sensations created. Serious now, he pushed the rest of the way in, sighing at her warm welcome. Despite their intentions, it did not take long before they were fully involved. He intended to wait for her if it killed him – and he thought for a minute that it might actually come to that – but it turned out that he didn't have to worry. Her movements grew more frantic and he felt the familiar quivering of her body as she cried out and arched hard against him, her head thrown back in surrender to the overpowering convulsions that overtook her and gripped him. Unfettered by the need to be a gentleman, he let go and moaned with the waves as they swept through him, clutching her hips to his in his explosive need.

Finally, his muscles unclenched and melted, and he sighed her name with the last of the spasms, cradling her to him as he enjoyed the satisfaction of her body draped over his, of her delicious flesh still surrounding him as his own flesh softened slowly and let the evidence of their climaxes flow between them.

She groaned happily and kissed his neck before pushing away slightly from him and checking his watch. "Well, not bad. At least we left a little time for your conferences."

Twisting his arm to look for himself, he chuckled when he saw that the elapsed time had at least surpassed the ignominious Inaugural record.

Four hours later, looking fresh and relaxed, the President and First Lady were dressed and coiffed and prepared for their anticipated arrival in the Peoples Republic of China. If the staff speculated on their Commander-in-Chief's unusually chipper attitude after a long flight, they chose not to share it – at least not with him.

His first official peek at the country as President of the United States was from the tarmac of the Beijing Airport, which appeared similar to most other airports in the world. He wasn't sure why he had expected anything else, except that everything about this country had been a mystery to the west for centuries – especially, and unfortunately, the politics.

They had certainly gone all out. The ubiquitous red carpet stretched across the concrete toward the waiting limousine, one of the same American Cadillacs that he always used. Ron had deemed it much too risky to switch vehicles, even if it suggested a lack of confidence in the Chinese security. Waiting about halfway down the runner stood the Chinese President Hu Jintao, Vice-president Zeng Qinghong, and Prime Minister Wen Jiabao. He had spent a couple of hours committing those names to memory so he could greet them without a stumble. Now he found himself going over them once more in his head. No need to insult them before they even got out of the airport.

The early autumn day had a bright snap to it, and he felt Abbey's hand pat his back as she stood just behind him. "Showtime, Babe."

He smiled and waved to the crowd clutching small American and Chinese flags that fluttered in concert. The average Chinese seemed pleased to see him, although he doubted very much that he was looking at anyone remotely average. As they approached the waiting dignitaries, he noted with a touch of amazed pride that, except for his own entourage of Secret Service hulks, he was the tallest person there. Certainly that was a first for him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Abbey's pointed grin and knew she had read him easily. Coloring slightly, he grinned back and shrugged just enough for her to see. He'd enjoy the moment anyway, even if it revealed a rare touch of vanity.

"Mister President," Hu Jintao greeted in heavily accented English.

"Mister President," Jed returned, first giving the traditional Chinese bow, then taking the extended hand of his host in the more familiar western style.

As was the custom, Abbey remained behind him until the men had all been introduced. He wondered if they realized that this mere woman was probably ten times smarter than any of them. Abbey had done her own research to find out what was expected for the woman – even the wife of a President – in regard to protocol. After raving about the ridiculous secondary-citizen status of women, she had promised to hold her tongue, at least until they were alone, and then she could do whatever she pleased with her tongue.

He shook away those dangerous thoughts. It would certainly be an international incident if the President of the United States were photographed with a hard-on when he met the Chinese leader.

Hu Jintao was dark haired and pleasant looking and probably about the same age as he. Hopefully, that meant some common ground, if only from their experiencing the same world events over the past half-century or so. After making the obligatory rounds, they made their way to the limousine, their host surprisingly agreeing to ride in the American automobile with them.

The day promised to be eventful, with a visit to the Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square, followed by initial diplomatic talks and capped off with a visit to the Peking Opera. As they traveled along the Shoudujichang Highway into Beijing proper, Jed was struck, as his historian mind frequently was, by the resiliency and stubbornness of mankind. This civilization had survived for centuries, its descendants compliant curators of the treasures of their past dynasties, while embracing – willingly or not – the politics of their current totalitarian regime.

The weight of his responsibility settled on him again, and even Abbey's supportive squeeze of his hand couldn't lighten it. He returned her grip, and smiled in reassurance, but the plastic faces of the Chinese President and his comrades tightened his own features.

Was democracy in China an impossibility? Was he tilting at Windmills, as so many had argued? Or was he the best chance in generations for that country to take the giant step toward true freedom? He had to think so. Otherwise, the trip was a farce, a mere political ploy. And even though he couldn't deny being a politician, he was damned if he would be labeled "political."

"You ready for seeing our country?" Hu Jintao asked, his smile easy enough, although it didn't quite reach his dark eyes.

"Yes," Jed replied, wondering just how much English this guy understood. "Abbey and I are both eager to tour your remarkable land."

He saw his wife nodding in agreement, but noticed that the Chinese leader paid little attention to her. Forcing down a very western irritation, he glanced out the window and recognized a site that had played a historical role in the search for freedom here.

"What is this place?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

Hu Jintao hesitated just long enough that his Vice President responded. "Tiananmen Square."

The incredible scene of 1989 flashed back to him. The lone, courageous student who stood before tanks and touched the world with his bold and most certainly sacrificial statement. The hunger strikes. The Massacre of June 4. The yearning for freedom.

He doubted his hosts would welcome these thoughts as they drove through the now-calm square. But they couldn't deny those weeks of the desperate drive toward democracy instigated by their own youth.

He couldn't force freedom on this land. It wasn't his style – or his place – anyway. But maybe he could show those who would that there was another chance, another hope. And maybe that hope lay in the words and actions of an idealistic Westerner who just happened to be President of the United States.

He felt a sudden thrill of hope rush through his chest. Why the hell couldn't he bring democracy to China? With real anticipation now, he began a mental map of his strategy as the new and old edifices of Beijing passed by.

Perhaps this would be a truly eventful trip, after all.


	3. Under the Yum Yum Tree

**Bounds of Freedom**

**A West Wing Story**

by MAHC

**Chapter Three – Under the Yum Yum Tree**

POV: Abbey Bartlet

Spoilers: AISTTC (very minor)

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Jed and Abbey aren't mine. Darn.

**The Peking Opera**

**8:05 p.m., Tuesday**

**Beijing Time**

Abigail Bartlet leaned slightly forward in the theater chair, enthralled with the pageantry playing out on the stage before her. The gray formality of the Chinese diplomats they had dealt with all day was shattered by the bursts of color, the explosion of movement, and the symphony of sound that whipped through the auditorium.

The Peking Opera – or the politically correct Beijing Opera – was over 200 years old, begun in 1790 during the reign of Emperor Qianlong, or so their interpreter had told them. The artistry combined singing, dialogue, mime, acrobatics, and dance to represent a story or emote anger, sorrow, happiness, surprise, and fear. Abbey observed that it must be their only outlet for these feelings, since they seemed quite unemotional at all other times, at least the stoic government officials who had dominated their time thus far.

As the action slowed, no doubt in preparation for segue to another movement, she caught a familiar low rumbling to her left. Without even a glance, she let her elbow ease over and nudge her husband's ribs. Right on target. He jerked slightly and cleared his throat, shifting so that he sat a little straighter. Then she allowed a peek, and smiled sympathetically at his sheepish wince. If she didn't think it would cause an international incident, she would just let him sleep. God knew he could use it. Despite his thin lie that morning, she doubted that he had gotten any real rest on the trip over – and he hadn't been to bed at all the night before their 3:00 a.m. departure. And the rest of their day had not exactly been leisurely, packed with tours of the Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square, as well as the first round of talks. With a crude calculation in her head, she put it at almost 36 hours for him without sleep. How he was even marginally coherent was beyond her.

"Let me know when Yum Yum comes out," he mumbled, squinting at her before he closed his eyes again.

She rolled her eyes, even though he couldn't see it. "First of all, Mister 800-790 SATs, Yum Yum is Japanese, not Chinese."

His grunt was unimpressed.

"And second, that's from _The Mikado_, not the Beijing Opera."

Another grunt. "At least Gilbert and Sullivan knew something about a plot."

"You know," she challenged, "if you paid attention, you might learn something."

That earned her a one-eyed glare before he unfolded his arms and leaned forward. "Do you see that instrument there?" he asked, pointing at a two-stringed bowed piece.

Well, she'd walked right into that one. "Mmm." Better not to give him too much encouragement.

"That's a jinghu. That moon-shaped one that the guy is plucking is a yueqin. And that other – "

"Jed – " She tried to keep her voice low, to hint to him that he was disturbing the show, but he was oblivious, or more likely unrepentant.

" – is a sanxian."

Shaking her head, she leaned back in the chair. "Well, thanks. I was really wondering about that."

"I could tell you were."

"How do you know these things?" she asked, even though it only egged him on.

He shrugged. "I know many things."

"Too many." It was a mumble, but his mock glare indicated he had heard her.

Fascinating though it was, the repetitious rhythm of the opera had grown a bit tedious. After glancing about at the audience, she concluded that their exchange really had not diminished from the festivities. And since they had been given a private box, maybe they actually weren't disturbing anyone else.

Allowing herself to continue being distracted, she watched him from the corner of her eye, taking note of the dark circles under his eyes, the deeper lines in his brow, the rounder slump to his shoulders. She knew he felt the enormity of this chance to bring at least the beginnings of democracy to a vast population in the chains of a totalitarian regime hiding under the guise of a "people's republic." She saw the weight of responsibility push down with the magnitude of his task. She felt the burden of his idealism fight with the yoke of reality.

Josiah Bartlet would change the world. That was his dream. His goal.

If only he could see that he already had. It was there every day in the lives he had touched, in the faces and voices and actions of the people who had the privilege of being around him – of calling him boss, friend, father – husband. But she knew this very mortal man yearned for immortality, sought a legacy that would surpass a presidential library in Manchester and a moving mannequin at Disney World.

He believed that China could be free. She just wished everyone else believed it, too.

"How'd the talks go?" she asked, hoping to boost him for the next day.

Pulling himself from another nod, he shrugged. "Predictably. They can't get past the idea that the West is inherently decadent."

"That's absurd," she declared, even though she knew he was right. "They want to talk about decadence, what about the young things half the Chinese ministry keeps for their lunchtime trysts?"

His grin softened her affronted dignity. "That's just because they don't have hot babes like you waiting for them."

Oh, he was incorrigible. Marvelously incorrigible. She couldn't help but grin back. "Maybe we are decadent," she said, shaking her head.

"Some of us, anyway," he leered, and let his hand slide up her thigh.

Irritation faded with the pleasure ignited by his caress. "Do any of them even realize you've brought your wife?"

"Maybe we could arrange some sort of trade?" he pondered, brow bouncing with evil innocence.

Her eyes twinkled back at him. "How do you think that would affect the talks?"

"I think they'd have free elections tomorrow if I promised to leave you here."

She gave him that baby doll look. "Part of the negotiations?"

To her surprise, his face darkened a bit. "Babe, I'd put Castro in charge over here before I'd let on of those ham-handed old men so much as blink at you."

She smirked, and even though she knew he was teasing, it warmed her to hear the edge of conviction he couldn't quite keep from his tone.

"We're fighting centuries of prejudice, Abbey," he reminded more seriously, but still easing his hand higher. "They aren't going to reform overnight."

"Mmm." She was rapidly losing interest in their political topic as his palm rested at the top of her thigh and his fingers sneaked inside the skirt that had ridden up when she sat.

"Jed," she scolded, but only for protocol, drawing the "e" out plaintively.

"What?" Yes, he was good with the innocence.

"Someone could see."

The blue eyes sparkled in the light from the stage. "Nah. Just Ron, and it's not like he hasn't seen me cop a feel in the past six years."

Oh God. She jerked away at the reminder that the agent sat just behind them and certainly saw the progress of his boss' hand. To her chagrin, this move created much more attention than Jed's subtle wanderings.

"Jackass," she muttered, tugging her skirt down in punishment for his amusement at her expense.

He slid his hand away, but leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Wanna see just how decadent we Westerners can get later?"

Ron shifted behind them. He had to have heard that.

"You'll be paying for this, Comrade," she hissed back.

"Promise?" The huskiness of his voice triggered a familiar thrill deep inside her. Oh yes. She promised.

They settled back, and she noted with amusement that Ron relaxed – as much as he could, anyway. She wondered when his professional devotion to the President had become his personal devotion to Jed Bartlet. There was no doubt in her mind that it had occurred somewhere along the way. She had seen the admiration and affection peek through that stern façade enough times to figure how he felt about his charge.

And Jed was right. He had certainly observed more than one intimate exchange between the President and First Lady. Not much fazed him after the time he opened the limousine door a little too early and caught them well involved in a welcome back encounter. Occasionally, Jed still chuckled about that. Not that she found any humor in the humiliation at the time.

"You got the hospital tomorrow during talks?" Her husband's abrupt non sequitur drew her away from her musings, and it took her a minute to connect.

Hospital? Tomorrow? "Oh. Yeah."

He was referring to the Shijingshan Hospital in the western section of the city. She had anticipated this part of the trip since it was arranged, pouring over research articles that reported and analyzed the alarming increase in cancer diagnoses in the area, especially among people who lived near rivers. Speculation was that the growing pollution levels were a direct contributor.

"We go to the Ming Tombs tomorrow morning," he reminded, moving on.

"Yeah."

"I find the terra cotta warriors fascinating."

"I know that you do." Indeed, he had made a study of them a few years before and regaled them all – as usual – with the details. She bet she could give more tidbits about the famous statues than their trained guide.

"Maybe I should have some made for me."

Okay, surely has wasn't serious – but it did take a voluntary tug at his lips to dispel any doubts.

"That's an excellent idea, Babe."

His head cocked suspiciously. "Are you patronizing me?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

After that they lapsed back into the mood of the performance, whether by interest or sheer fatigue, she couldn't tell, but it was several minutes before her mind stirred from the colorful patterns to revive their conversation. Jed had not attempted another stolen caress, which both relieved and disappointed her. In face, now that she thought about it, she realized he had grown quite still.

"I think this is the final movement where all the characters come back together – " she began, but the words died at her lips as she turned to look at him.

His normally ruddy face had paled slightly and he stared at the stage, sweat beading over his brow and across his upper lip.

Aw, hell. "Jed?" Be calm. Don't jump to conclusions. He hates that.

"I'm fine." Well, that confirmed it. His answer was too quick, too reassuring.

"Jed – " she asked pointedly, sliding a hand up his arm, trying to make it appear more like a caress than a doctor's touch.

"I told you, I'm fi – "

"Bull." Her hand covered his fist. Was that a tremble? So slight, it was hard to tell.

He pulled away abruptly.

"Let's go," she urged, glancing around at the audience to see if anyone was watching. Of course, just about every eye in the place was at glued on the President of the United States. She realized their departure would not go unnoticed – as if it ever had.

"We can't just leave, Abbey. This is all part of the diplomacy, remember?"

Damn him for observing protocol. But she knew it was more than that. She knew he couldn't let on that he felt bad. Of all people, he simply couldn't be sick. He could never just be sick. The speculation would run wild, would prompt a world-wide discussion of his health.

She would try reason first, as if it would help. "Are you dizzy?"

He shook his head. Liar.

"I know you haven't slept – "

"Abbey, I'm fine – "

"Don't tell me you're fine," she hissed struggling to maintain the appearance of composure. "You're on the verge of collapse right now. Do you really want that to happen in front of – "

"I'm just tired. I promise." He turned to her and she read the mixture of agitation and need on his face. _Let me have this._

Please let it just be fatigue. Please. Pushing back her deep concern, she sighed. "Well – "

"Okay," he decided with more energy, grabbing at her offering. "After the show we go straight to bed." He grinned, but even the promise in his eyes could not mask the deep exhaustion.

Just for him, she returned the smile, squeezing his hand both to reassure him and to search for the tremble again. But the return squeeze was strong and controlled. Thank God.

As the rich symphony of movement and sound entwined on the stage, she leaned back and tried to suppress her growing anxiety. But she couldn't completely give up her peripheral observations. They had a huge day tomorrow, not just publicity tours, but real, vital dialogues with policy makers that could change the relationship of the East and West. He would need all his strength to reform China.

And all of that meant no decadence tonight. Damn.


	4. Cowboy Boots and Versace

Hope the time shifts aren't too confusing.

**Bounds of Freedom**

**A West Wing Story**

by MAHC

**Chapter Four – Cowboy Boots and Versace**

POV: C.J. Cregg

Spoilers: "25;"Jefferson Lives"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not mine, unfortunately.

**The White House**

**Wednesday**

**1:30 p.m. EDT**

"C.J.! C.J.!"

It wasn't as if C.J. Cregg had never been in the jostle before. In fact, it was rare that she was out of the jostle. But today was different. Today she fought every emotion in her body, fought against the despair of giving in to what might have happened, fought against the pumping anxiety that preceded a dire revelation, fought against the deep pain that promised a lifetime of nightmarish reruns.

"Okay, here's what we know." What did they know? Not much. Not enough. Not anywhere damned near enough.

The group quieted, their faces mixing the natural anticipation of a huge story and the genuine concern over people they knew – over a man they knew and respected – and truly liked. C.J. reminded herself that these less familiar faces belonged to the second string players, the starters having pulled the plumb assignment to China. Lucky them.

Deep breath. Be professional. God, how she hated being professional.

"Approximately one hour and twenty-five minutes ago there was apparently a disturbance on board Air Force One, which is currently parked on the runway at Beijing Airport. The President and First Lady, along with President Hu Jintao, several members of the Chinese government, Chief of Staff Leo McGarry, and Chief of Communications Toby Zeigler, had boarded the plane en route to Xian, the next scheduled stop on the President's tour. At 12:15 p.m., Eastern Daylight Time, the Chinese government informed us that a possible hostage situation may exist on the plane."

She literally felt the shock jar the room. They knew something was wrong. They knew it must be big. But they had not anticipated the worst. A possible hostage situation. A possible hostage situation – with the President of the United States of America as hostage.

Unthinkable.

"Where's the secret service?" The voice broke protocol by not waiting for her acknowledgement, but no one noticed. They all stared at her for the answer. Where the hell was the secret service?

"There are agents on board. At this time we do not know the status of any of the passengers."

"Including the President?" Steve asked.

"When I said 'any,' I meant 'any'." Don't make me repeat that.

"C.J.!" The hands shot up now, recovered enough to remember procedure. Steve's backup Reuters reporter got the next question at the press secretary's nod.

"Has there been any communication with anyone on the plane or with anyone near the site?"

C.J. Cregg had long ago learned that she didn't lie to the press, but she had become a master at manipulating the answer to her benefit. "We do have agents on the ground. They are working with Chinese security to ascertain the best method of approaching the situation." At least she hoped they were.

"C.J.!"

"Richard."

"Has anyone figured out a motive?"

Well, gee. Why would anyone want to hold the President of the United States hostage? What possible leverage could they have? But she checked her sarcasm and answered as calmly as possible. "I will remind you that this is only a possible hostage situation. So far no demands have been made."

"Has Vice-President Russell assumed the decision-making responsibilities?"

Well, he had decided that he didn't know what the hell to decide. Better keep that to herself. "The Vice-President is in the West Wing conferring with the National Security Advisor, the Joint Chiefs, and various cabinet members."

And hopefully someone would make sure he didn't bomb Taiwan by mistake. She was pretty certain the President would be more than a little pissed if he thought that his fate rested solely in the hands of Bingo Bob.

With that, she had exhausted her very limited knowledge about the situation. No need to stand there and let them speculate for the world. "Okay, that's all I have right now," she told them, closing the notebook. "Expect another briefing in about forty-five minutes."

She dashed from the podium, partly to avoid any extra questions, partly to get back as quickly as possible for any news. Carol met her at the door.

"What?" she asked immediately.

The tall assistant thrust a sheet of paper into her hand. "CNN has footage."

Her heart pounded at the news. Footage – of what?

"What does it show?"

At that moment, the haggard face of Josh Lyman appeared before her, his hair wild, his suit a crumpled mess. "It's audio. One of their reporters got a cell phone call out before he was caught. It's on the air right now."

Damn it! Could she just ONCE know something before it splattered all over the TV? They dashed to the bank of televisions in the bullpen and stared at the live feed, a distant camera zooming as hard as possible to focus through the dark toward the familiar 747 resting on the pavement. The only indication that there was a problem was the complete lack of movement of humanity around it. No secret service. No honor guard. No welcoming committee. Nothing. Illuminated by the airport lights only, the plane looked abandoned.

Someone shushed, even though no one had actually said anything. They heard the garbled message through heavy static, over and over. " – taken the plane – don't know status of the President – have guns – '

She knew the voice. Jacob Riley. One of her own press corps, third row, seat four.

" – coming over now – he's going to make me give up the phone – "

And then there was a crack, a shot, and that was it.

The tape rolled again, a horrible replay of a human being's final moments. " – don't know status of the President – have guns – "

Before she knew it was even coming, C.J.'s body bolted toward the bathroom just in time for her to dive at the toilet and throw up. This could not be happening. This absolutely could not be happening.

Pale and shaking, she stumbled back to the group, terrified to watch, but terrified not to watch. She made it back in time to hear the anchor, visibly shaken herself, recapping what little they had.

"We are trying to re-establish contact with our reporter, but we aren't sure if he is able to communicate."

No. Probably hard to communicate with a bullet hole in the middle of your forehead, C.J. figured, too shocked to grieve for the correspondent.

**1:50 p.m. EDT**

C.J. Cregg had been in the Oval Office uncounted times in the past six years, witnessing victories, defeats, celebrations, lamentations, and the worst – those unbelievable hours while the world – and a father and mother – waited for word of a young woman's fate. She had hoped she would never experience anything like Zoey's kidnapping and Jed Bartlet's tortured, courageous act of sacrifice again.

But she had never imagined this, never expected this, never prepared for this.

The mood was decidedly somber, stunned even, despite the presence of capable veterans in the room. General Alexander stood ramrod straight, his eyes tight, his demeanor rigid. Secretary of State Berryhill sat, but his expressive face could not mask his own personal concern over a man who was not only his boss, but a friend. Josh Lyman, filling the un-fillable shoes of Leo McGarry, had the deer-in-the-headlights stare of someone propelled head-first into the last place he wanted to be. The only other woman in the room was Nancy McNally, who propped against the fireplace, arms crossed, staring at the massive desk whose rightful occupant was the subject of their discussion.

"We've heard from no one?" Vice-President Russell asked again, even though he had gotten the same answer twice before.

McNally just shook her head.

"What about the service? What about Ron Butterfield?"

"No one, Mister Vice-President," Alexander supplied patiently, jumping in before the National Security Advisor could answer. They all saw her irritation with the man who was, for the moment, trying to take the place of Josiah Bartlet.

Speaking of un-fillable shoes –

Running a hand through his hair, Josh paced behind a sofa. "Surely we have someone over there who can step in for us, who can negotiate. Where's the Ambassador?"

Secretary Berryhill set his bourbon glass on a table and stood. "He's with the Prime Minister. They're trying to find out more about the terrorists. He's got instructions to call here directly as soon as – "

"Mister Pres – Mister Vice-President?" Debbie Fiderer stood in the doorway, her customarily colorful caftan dull and muted, as if reflecting their mood.

Russell looked up. "Yes?"

"Agent Godwin from the CIA is here to see you."

News. Good or bad?

"Yeah. Send him in."

With dark, close-cropped hair and smooth cheeks, the man looked too young to be delivering such an important message to the highest office in the land, but his demeanor spoke of control and competence.

"Agent Godwin," Russell greeted, not bothering with the formality of a handshake. "What do you have?"

He didn't hesitate. "They've talked with a representative from the Chinese government."

"What do they want?" Dr. McNally asked, uncrossing her arms and stepping closer.

The CIA agent took a deep breath. "Not completely sure yet, but they've said something about medical reforms."

Russell waited a beat. "Does this have something to do with the First Lady?"

Godwin hesitated, then swallowed, and C.J. saw the shimmer in his eyes, the haunted look of someone who saw the very real horror that awaited them. "It has a lot to do with the First Lady, but not the way you think."

"How?" McNally wanted to know.

"If they don't get a promise of these reforms, they'll start killing hostages – starting with the First Lady."

Dear God. Dear God.

"Who the hell do they think they are?" Josh spat, his lanky body dropped hard into a chair, the very chair the President used when they all sat around the conference area.

"Terrorists," Russell answered unnecessarily. C.J. pondered the misfortune that this idiot was their leader – in name anyway.

"Is there any way we can speak to the President?" Berryhill asked Godwin. "We can tell them we need proof that – that – "

"That he's not already dead," Russell finished tactlessly, and C.J. felt the surge of fury from every other person in the room. How dare he voice what they all feared.

Alexander's shoulders shifted. "They said they would start killing hostages. That means they're still alive. At least for now."

"And they said they would kill Abbey first," Josh murmured, his voice breaking at the blunt reminder.

The simple use of the First Lady's name jarred them all with its personal level. This was not just the President and First Lady. This was not just two political leaders. This was Jed and Abbey.

This was unbelievable.

For a long moment no one spoke. No one knew what to say.

"We're going to need to decide how to tell the press," the Vice-President finally mused, walking behind the huge desk and running a hand over the chair. So help her, if he sat in Jed Bartlet's chair –

But he kept going with only a quick glance at the coveted seat. After a stolen look toward Nancy McNally, C.J. was pretty sure she would have had company jerking him out if he had foolishly decided to sit.

"Mister Vice-President," the National Security Advisor said, finally breaking her silence. "We've got to have something to tell them first."

"What?" He stopped suddenly, and his pants leg caught on the top of his boot. Cowboy boots and Versace. What a fashion statement. Even John Hoynes knew better – and he was from Texas.

"What do we have that we could tell them? We haven't heard from anyone except CNN. We don't have any intelligence from inside yet – assuming we ever have any. We're not even clear on what the terms are." As usual, her arguments were solid.

"We have to tell them something," Russell ventured tentatively, the question in his voice giving way too much evidence of his uncertainty.

"No," Secretary Berryhill said from the couch. "No, we don't. We wait and see what their next move is."

Dear God, wait? What if – "What if their next move is to kill Abbey Bartlet?" C.J. had not planned on entering the conversation, had meant only to listen in order to get an idea of how to brief the press next go round. But she couldn't let that go without comment.

"They want medical reforms. If they kill their leverage, they lose their chance for negotiations," Berryhill argued.

"She not leverage!" C.J. snapped, face flushing with anger. "She's the First Lady of the United States. She's Abigail Bartlet!"

But Berryhill ignored her emotion and stated evenly, "To them, she's leverage. It gives us the opportunity to talk with the Chinese, to see how we can meet their demands."

General Alexander cleared his throat to draw their attention. "Have you all forgotten something?"

They stared at him, many possibilities – all unpleasant – running through their minds.

He clenched his teeth. "The United States of American does not negotiate with terrorists."

Even if it is for the life of the President of the United States?

The Secretary flinched, guard dropping with the flat statement. "Surely we can't just let them – surely we have to find some arrangement. General, you're not suggesting that we leave Jed Bartlet in their hands?"

To their surprise, Alexander sagged. "No," he admitted, shoulders slumping perhaps for the first time in his career. "I'm not suggesting that, but I don't see how we can give in to their demands without compromising U.S. policy."

Voice pitched higher with the stress, Josh Lyman braced his hands on the table in front of him and leaned forward. "What the hell do they mean by medical reforms anyway? Where do we start? Don't they know we don't control China? Are they crazy?"

They stared at him, then at each other.

Calm as usual, despite the surreal situation, the Nancy McNally cocked her head and laid it out for them quite plainly. "Well, they're holding the President of the United States and the President of China hostage, and they're going to start killing them unless we cure cancer. I'd say our chances that they are crazy are pretty damned good."


	5. If Only

This chapter is mostly exposition. Hope that doesn't bore you, but I had to establish some background information for the situation.

Thanks for the feedback. It prods me into getting the writing done when I should be doing real work!

**Bounds of Freedom**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

**Chapter Five – If Only**

POV: Chen Wenyuan

Spoilers: None

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Only Chen Wenyuan is my own creation (duh).

**Air Force One**

**11:50 p.m., Wednesday**

**Beijing Time**

He still couldn't believe she was gone. Even after witnessing the day-by-day deterioration, even after feeling the brittle bones as he clasped her hand, even after hearing the rasping struggle for breath. Even after all that, he couldn't believe she was gone. He had groped for reason, for purpose. Fruitlessly, but persistently, he had reworked every step he had taken, every move toward treatment.

If only he had done this – if only he had used that –

But the bottom line was always the same. The only "if" that would have made any difference: If only he had lived in America.

He had no doubt his daughter would live still if he resided and practiced in that mystical country. Oh, he had tried for years to bring reform to his country through his profession. He had made a name for himself as one of the top physicians in Beijing – and of course one of the top Party men. What good had it brought him?

A Japanese car. A home with two bathrooms. A dead daughter.

And she was his only child, as decreed by the State. Population control. A national mandate. And being the good Party man, he abided by it. Not that he had much choice. The second child's fate was sealed at conception. If the mother did not abort before delivery, the obstetrician followed strict orders to take care of things before the head emerged from the birth canal. A technicality, but in China, a significant one.

And so he was left with nothing, not even a wife, who could not deal with the pain and took matters into her own hands by opening her wrists with a freshly-sharpened kitchen knife. Tragic, they said. A terrible blow.

But he was a good Party man. He would deal with it.

And so he had, waiting for his chance, tolerating the growing incompetence of the party-run governing board of the hospital, remaining silent about the deaths of abused workers, the disappearance of dissidents, the mutilation of infants whose parents had violated the one-child policy.

But not anymore. At 7:53 a.m., Tuesday, his opportunity had arrived on a magnificent gleaming airplane that proudly proclaimed itself to be the property of "The United States of America."

He knew he would be chosen. There was no one even close who could represent the medical profession in the PRC as well as Doctor Chen Wenyuan. His loyalty, his patience, his silence had finally paid off. When they called from the President's staff, he accepted with appropriate humility and surprise, but in truth he had been planning his actions since the trip was announced – even before, if he counted the broader plan.

Even after the years of preparation, altered with the serendipity of the American president's presence, he almost couldn't believe it was finally time. He hoped they could pull it off peacefully. As a physician he was committed never to harm, and he especially didn't want to see any come to this American woman who had surprised him with her compassion and graciousness, and – he had to admit – intelligence, even if she was female.

No, if he could complete this mission as planned, he would not only bring about the rescue of himself and his colleagues, but hopefully also the 1.2 billion countrymen who slaved under the State regime. The only way to do that was to reveal to the world how twenty percent of its population lived – and if his life was forfeit in the pursuit, so be it.

But he held out hope for reason. The President seemed, after all, to be a fair and intelligent man himself – for a Westerner. Surely he would see the logic. Americans were sentimental and pliable when it came to their abstract freedom. They claimed they wished it for all mankind. Here was their chance to grant it to someone without a coup or invasion. Surely the leader of their free nation could not refuse such an opportunity.

And surely Hu Jintao himself would have to concede the depth of crisis in his own country when confronted so dramatically and so globally.

Chen sucked in a deep breath to steady himself as they ascended the portable steps toward the distinctive aircraft. The required searches had been done – with such subtlety that he had not initially been aware of them at all. But the President's bodyguards were thorough, nevertheless. He had nothing to fear in that regard. The weapons they needed had come on board with the full knowledge of the Americans. Ironic.

It was supposed to be a quick hop from Beijing to Xian, in the Shaanxi Province, for the Doctor First Lady to visit another hospital. Only Chen and his entourage knew they would not make it.

He tried to remain appropriately in the background for the moment. It occurred to him that he might have approached Dr. Bartlet privately before, presented a plea to her sensibilities as a physician in a moment alone. Perhaps they wouldn't have needed to delve any deeper into the plan than that. But the plan was laid already. He would have to take fate's hand as it was dealt to him.

"We can visit in the front suite," Bartlet was saying amicably to Hu Jintao as they entered the sleek nose.

The Chinese President nodded stiffly. No one had dared say so, but Chen suspected the shorter, blander leader chaffed at being so completely overshadowed by the energetic and stylist Westerner. Bartlet's easy charisma had won over the American-curious Chinese people before the first day was finished and they had come out in droves this morning and throughout the day for a glimpse of the gregarious President and his wife. They didn't know quite what to make of Abbey Bartlet, but they found her fascinating.

Once inside the plane, Chen worked to keep the awe from his expression. The sheer size of the thing was enough to take his words, but the custom layout was the most impressive. They used the main entrance, guided immediately to the right as they boarded, separating from the President's party. He knew from his careful research that the Bartlet's personal quarters lay at the nose of the plane to their left. Had he been invited there, he would have found a bedroom, bathroom, and office that made up the Presidential Suite. In the same area, they had outfitted a medical room. Perhaps he could swing a visit there, possibly enabling himself to have close and private access to the First Lady – maybe even the President himself. But there was probably little time for that.

He noted through the small window that one of his accomplices boarded at the service entrance on the lower third level, leading directly into the cargo and equipment hold. It would be easier to establish control from there, they felt, giving them the advantage of surprise. The others entered as expected of the security agents for the Chinese President. Chen made a concentrated effort not too look at them too long in case he should reveal some suspicious expression to the American agents, then laughed at his paranoia. If they suspected anything, he would have been face down on the airport runway by now.

He walked past the galley down the narrow hallway beside the main conference room. The rear seating, he knew, was set aside for the selected members of the Western press. Their presence presented both a problem and an opportunity. They would need to be controlled, but they could also broadcast his mission quickly to the rest of the world.

A warm laugh drew his attention back down the hallway, and he turned to see Abigail Bartlet sharing a moment with her husband. Their hands were clasped loosely as they stood outside the galley. Hu Jintao was not visible, perhaps having gone ahead to the mentioned suite. The First Lady took the familiar liberty of brushing something from the President's lapel as he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. Chen suppressed the sting that knifed through him with the personal memory of such a connection, and for a brief moment he stumbled back from the determination that drove him. But just for a moment. He wondered if that might be the last time they would share a touch. It would be a shame, indeed, to threaten the love between the First Couple – and he didn't really intend for anything to happen to them, in the long run, but such risks were certainly present. If they only cooperated, he told himself, things would be fine.

His disturbing softness toward them had begun that morning as he walked with Dr. Bartlet through the corridors of the Shiingshan Hospital, watched the compassion on her fine features, listened to the warmth in her voice as she spoke with patients. He had not expected that, for some reason. Maybe it was because she was a woman, or a westerner, or both. Maybe it was because he had not wanted to put a human face on something he had only thought of previously as a tool – even as a victim.

But once she curled up in the bed with the young girl whose illness was so much like his own daughter's, he warred with the conflicting emotions.

And he saw another side as she spoke of her husband's glee and fascination with the terra cotta warriors he had visited earlier in the day. The way her eyes lit up when she mentioned his name, the way her dimples danced as she talked about his near-obsession with the trivial points – teasing, but loving at the same time.

His government considered these westerners decadent, but Chen could see no fault in the blatant evidence of so strong a love as this woman had for her husband. It was an uncomfortable realization that didn't balance with his life-formed views of Americans.

Yet, somehow, he had always suspected it was so. How could such a country not only survive, but flourish, with greed and lust as its base? No, there was something more here, something inviting, something – noble, even.

And that was what he must reach, what he must touch, what he must win in order to succeed in his mission. They would respond. They had to respond. His purpose was humanitarian; they had to see that. Noble, even, he kept telling himself. But he wasn't quite as secure about the motives of his comrades. Their roles had begun long before, when the original plan involved only Hu Jintao, and he suspected their true basis involved an unethical subversion of power. Indeed, wasn't that what he wanted from them, though – their power, both man and fire?

But could he rein them in? Could he count on them to give his way a chance? He had gotten them their positions, using his own long-standing loyalty as influence. They owed him at least a little time.

He glanced back at the empty hallway and wondered if it was too late to turn things back. How simple it would be just to go on to Xian, show Dr. Abigail Bartlet the medical facilities there, and enjoy his well-earned place of honor in his home country for the rest of his life.

But then he thought of her. Of the years she would never have, of the laughter he would never hear, of the smiles he would never see. He thought of her and the determination returned in force.

It was too late now, anyway. Probably the agents below had already begun their move toward –

In all of his years as a doctor, Chen had been witness to the results of violence, but never to the act itself as it happened. Because of that, for a moment, he didn't realize that the muffled cracks he heard were gunshots.

But as soon as his brain logged the source, he cursed and lunged toward the nose of the plane. He had to get to Bartlet before his accomplices did.

Yes, it was too late now.


	6. I Wasn't Supposed to Take Them Both?

**Bounds of Freedom**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

**Chapter Six – I Wasn't Supposed to Take Them Both?**

POV: Jed

Spoilers: "Five Votes Down;" "HSFTTT"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I did not create The West Wing characters (as if anyone though I did). I just like to have fun with them (some more than others).

**Air Force One**

**11:45 p.m., Wednesday**

**Beijing Time**

"So, Mister President, you are enjoying the treasures of our beautiful country?"

Jed Bartlet stifled a grimace as he turned on the bottom step of Air Force One to glance back at his host. The non sequitur should not have surprised him. Nothing they had discussed so far seemed even remotely connected to anything substantial, and it was frustrating the hell out of him. Nor did the persistent throbbing in his back improve his attitude. But he forced a pleasant, if brief smile for the Chinese leader and for the ubiquitous cameras that recorded their every move, even long after the scheduled departure time.

"Certainly, Mister President," he returned, speaking loudly over the powerful engines. Then he couldn't resist a pointed dig. "Of course, I believe your greatest treasure is your people, sir. A treasure I hope you want to preserve."

If his counterpart took offense to that, he didn't show it in his face. In fact, he hadn't shown much of any emotion one way or the other the past two days. The American President had even resorted to baiting him with comments about free trade, capitalism, elections. Polite but vague, Hu Jintao had merely nodded and refused to follow the lead.

This time was no different. "A nation's people are always its greatest asset. I am sure you consider that for your country, as well," came the diplomatic answer.

Bartlet sighed and nodded. He had already decided that afternoon that he might as well enjoy his visit to China as a tourist because there sure as hell wasn't going to be anything else productive about it. Hu Jintao had been tight-lipped and tight-assed about even broaching the subject of human rights or opening up to capitalism.

Oh, things had progressed pleasantly enough on the surface. Courtesy was paramount, the culture of the ancient country laid out for the visitors in elaborate presentations. But the meat of the trip—the talks – languished in the stubborn refusal of Hu Jintao to address the matters Bartlet felt crucial. Finally, despite his suspicion that this was his last chance to do something truly world-changing, he surrendered to the realization that he had failed to ignite that spark of freedom in the communist land.

The impetus for the trip seemed to be lost. So – they'd see a few more ruins, take in a few cute children dancing or twirling pastel ribbons, and smile graciously before heading back to their decadent West. With a heavy, but resolved heart, he accepted that his dream of bringing democracy to China had apparently been just that – a dream. So much for the Bartlet Legacy. He should regret it, but at the moment, as he climbed the steps into the welcome familiarity of Air Force One, his back hurt too damned much to think about it.

"Is your wife not joining us for the trip to Xian?" he asked. It was probably a bit of a low blow, but his self-chastisement came too late to take back the question. The Chinese First Lady had been so obviously overshadowed by Abbey that she simply faded into the background. No one even seemed to notice that she did not attend the morning functions. The official word was that she had developed a case of the flu.

"She is still ill." The answer was curt. Apparently, he had struck a nerve.

The President struggled not to brace a hand against his tender muscles as they climbed the steep steps. "I'm sorry to hear that. You know, Abbey's always after me to take that natural stuff – e coli or something like that. Says it helps prevent the flu."

Hu nodded solemnly. "I understand why she would be concerned, considering your condition."

It was said simply, with no apparent message, but the words cut a red slash of anger through him. With no small effort, he fought the urge to tell the man exactly what he thought of this whole damned wasted trip to try to save his miserable, misguided country.

He managed, narrowly, trusting only a nod to be his response, as they finally reached the top and ducked inside the fuselage. The ache in his back prodded him to straighten slowly. Too little sleep and too many wasted hours sitting at a negotiation table had stiffened his muscles. One bright thought caressed his mind as he looked back down the steps to the lighted tarmac and saw his wife and the Chinese doctor – Chang? Chin? –who had guided her at the hospital that day begin their ascent. How he could talk her into a back rub later without revealing the true reason for its need?

She had already been onto him about a much worse possibility the night before during the opera, as much as he tried to mask it. She had known him too long, had seen the symptoms too many times. He told himself it was just fatigue, just the expected results of getting too little sleep accompanied by too much stress. But the depressingly familiar wave of dizziness that had swept over him fit right into the identification slots he so desperately wanted to ignore. Blessedly, however, the harbingers of that evening had not brought about a morning crisis, and he counted himself more than lucky that he had only the aggravating back to deal with – if he didn't count the aggravating Chinese President.

Add to that his growing intolerance of the Chinese attitude toward women, and he was just about ready to count the trip as a total bust, terra cotta warriors not withstanding. Strangely enough, Abbey had been almost passive about it, smiling at the constant expectation that she should walk behind him, nodding deferentially at the minor Party men who certainly were ten times less competent that she was. Only the doctor who had escorted her through the hospital seemed to treat her as a colleague. But he knew her well enough to expect the pressure cooker of her ire to blow once they were alone. Not that he couldn't benefit from that. In fact, by playing his cards right and simply listening to her tirade, as he would have anyway, he almost certainly assured himself of being the beneficiary of her need to let off the steam. And damn, if she wasn't sexy in her moments of righteous indignation.

"Good evening, Mister President," Toby greeted just inside the plane, hand behind his back. "And you, Mister President," he added for Hu Jintao.

Ah, a friendly face – or at least as friendly as Toby could get. "Toby, I don't think I've seen you since our visit to the tombs this morning. How'd you like the terra cotta warriors?" Jed asked, eager for the distraction.

"They were very interesting, sir."

"Interesting!" he bellowed in his best indignant tone. "You have no appreciation of value, my man."

"No, sir," Toby agreed amicably, falling in line behind his boss and the silent Chinese leader.

"I mean, we are headed to Xian tonight. Do you know anything about it? Have you done your homework?" Professor Bartlet quizzed.

"I would say, sir," Toby offered, mouth twitching slightly, "that my dog ate it, but here it might be more that someone ate my dog."

Hu Jintao started at that, and Jed almost slapped Toby on the back just for finally getting a reaction out of the guy.

Passing over the possible international incident that his Chief of Communications could have caused, the President waved a hand in the air and launched into a description of the city. "Xian, ancient capital for eleven centuries, gateway to the Silk Road – "

"Can't wait, Mister President," Toby assured him. "I would, of course, be distraught if you didn't choose to regale me with much more useless trivia for the entirety of our flight."

"Ah – there, see – you were doing so well, too. Okay everybody," he announced to those within earshot. "Toby's with me all day tomorrow." Enthusiastic applause greeted the news, most loudly from those victims who had been spared another day by the speechwriter's sacrifice.

The younger man actually flinched.

"Don't worry, Toby," said a familiarly warm voice from the doorway. "It'll be over before you know it. At least you won't need Dramamine for the flight."

Abigail Bartlet accepted her husband's extended hands and stood in the narrow hallway with him, lifting her lips to his for a brief, but affectionate, kiss as she brushed a non-existent piece of lint from his lapel.

For the past two days, his natural tendency to touch his wife had been squelched by the memory of C.J.'s awkward reminder before the trip that the Chinese frowned on public displays of affection. Still, he had slipped on a few occasions, especially as they climbed the ancient steps of the Imperial Palace in the Forbidden City. The splendor and romance of the moment struck him and they had ended up ascending the stairs hand-in-hand for the cameras of the world to witness. Of course, he figured the folks back home barely blinked at this. They had been treated over the past six years to much racier moments, including frequent kisses, some of which displayed enough heat to draw a blush to their observers' faces.

He hung onto her, even as she pulled back, but couldn't quite keep from wincing at the movement. Damn. Immediately, he wiped the discomfort from his face before she could see. He didn't dare let on because he was fairly confident that this flare up was not only caused by hours of sitting at a negotiation table, but also one particular hour sitting – in a manner, anyway – in his office chair on Air Force One with his wife astride him. And even with the pain that encounter had given him, he certainly did not want to forfeit the opportunity to try it again, perhaps on the way back home. No, he couldn't let Abbey see –

"I'll rub it later," she whispered at his ear.

Okay, so much for that. Now he realized by the fire in her eyes that his strategy had been completely wrong. Relieved, he grinned and bounced his eyebrows.

"Your _back_, Mister Decadence," she chided with a knowing nod toward that part of his body. That had been for his ears only, but he saw the startled glare from Hu Jintao and figured it was just as well they had not been successful in their talks. Abbey's delicious "immorality" might have undone the whole thing.

"Mister President." Leo stepped from the back of the plane, and Toby took advantage of the distraction to make his escape, but he wasn't quite fast enough.

"Homework, Toby!" the President called to the retreating back.

"Dog!" the speechwriter quipped over his shoulder.

With another soft kiss, Abbey said, "I promised _Vogue_ a quote." She squeezed his hands and stepped away. "But I'll be back."

"Don't forget you promised to rub it," he reminded, a little too loudly, judging from the quick head turns their way.

"Mister President!" Leo chided. Abbey's throaty laughter echoed down the hallway.

"My _back_, Leo – " Ah, hell. He hadn't meant to let that little tidbit out. Sure enough, the mother hen instinct kicked in immediately.

"Do you need – "

"I'm fine," he insisted. "Nothing a couple of Vicoden and some Percoset wouldn't cure."

The frown hit Leo's forehead instantly. "Sir – "

"I'm kidding, Leo, for Pete's sake. People do that sometimes, you know? Besides, Abbey's promised a back rub later. That's better than drugs any day." And maybe she'd deliver more, he hoped, bad back or not.

The eye roll was patented McGarry. "I've got to entertain – someone," he said, glancing warily at the Chinese President. They both knew what he meant. Leo's job for the plane trip to Xian was to keep Hu Jintao's loyal Party advisors away so that the two Presidents might be able to talk one-on-one. It was really their only chance of breaking through the solid shell of communist brainwashing. "Oh, Ron says he's good to go when you're ready."

"Excellent. I'll just – " He paused and saw that Hu had stepped into the Presidential Suite already. Lowering his voice, he continued, "I'll just hang out with Mister Fun Guy over there. Take your time."

A not-smile curved Leo's lips as he left. "Yes, sir."

With one more fond look at his oldest friend, the President stepped into his office and met the unnervingly unwavering gaze of his counterpart. Suddenly alone, the two men stared at each other for a good ten seconds before someone decided to make the first attempt at verbal communication.

"Mister President," Jed began, gesturing at one of the seats. "We'll be taking off in just a minute. If you would secure yourself."

Hu nodded and bent so stiffly it looked as if he were worried about creasing his trousers. Bartlet took the other seat and belted in. As smooth as Air Force One was, it was still an airplane and take-offs were one of the most dangerous times.

A moment or two later, Hu Jintao's two bodyguards entered the cabin, followed by Frank Santos, the man chosen to accompany the U.S. President on this trip. Not that he didn't have dozens of agents covering his every move – an irritation he had grown to accept as part of the burden of the office – but Santos was supposed to stick with him constantly. The stone-faced young man cut his dark eyes about quickly and nodded at his boss.

"Clear for takeoff, sir," he reported. The Chinese guards apparently related the same message to their leader in their native language. All three of the newcomers sat. The President noted that their hands remained completely free and poised to whip out the hidden weapons at any moment. He wasn't sure if that was encouraging or not.

Two more days, he told himself. Two more days either to tolerate or to win. Once again, as his back enjoyed the support from the custom chair, he considered the possibility that he could still salvage the moment. Maybe just a beginning. Maybe just a toe-hold of free trade in the country. Something. Despite his momentary surrender, he knew he could never completely accept the fact that nothing had been gained from all their trouble.

Turning to the Chinese president, he started to broach another proposal for negotiations, but the words never reached his lips.

At one time in his life, Jed Bartlet might have been hard pressed to identify the sound of gunfire within seconds of hearing it, but not anymore. The nightmare of Rosslyn would accompany him forever, as would the memory of those hard, sharp bursts that almost took two lives, one of them his own. No, he would never mistake that sound for anything else.

And now, as the muffled pops hit somewhere below them, his heart slammed against his chest with the horrible kick of awareness. Shots. In the plane somewhere. Not too close, but definitely inside. What the hell was going on? He glanced over at Hu Jintao, hoping for some indication of calm. Maybe it was a demonstration, or a send off. But of course he knew that wasn't it – couldn't be it.

The dark-clad agents, American and Chinese, fell instantly to their protective stand, guns drawn in one hand, the other pressed to the earpieces for any information. Their charges were the most important people on the plane – the most important people on the planet. Bartlet took in a measured breath, forcing his shoulders down, his jaw shut. Let them work. Let them do their jobs.

Santos had just turned to look at the others when one swirled from his position facing the door to fire two instant shots into the American's forehead. The body lurched backwards, crashing against the wall and sliding down along with smeared splatters of blood and brain.

"Oh my God!"

The man was dead, right there at his feet. Dead by the hands of men supposedly there to protect his fellow world leader – and, in a way, him, as well. He couldn't stop the words, couldn't control his heartbeat anymore.

"What are you – what have you done?"

The agent turned calmly and gestured for the two presidents to back away. The other agent reached under his coat and pulled out a short rifle, holding it on them. Jed swallowed, heart aching for the man who had sworn his life – and now given it – for his protection. Hu Jintao stared, eyes wide, mouth hanging.

Suddenly, their door swung open, giving way to the frantic fists of Charlie Young, who burst inside. "Mister President!" he called. "Are you – "

One gun shifted from his boss to rest on the young bodyman, who stumbled to a halt at the sight.

"Shit."

Bartlet thought it a succinct and appropriate response.

Now the agent prompted them all to back against the bulkhead. Jed glanced toward Charlie, jerking his head for the young man to follow them, to do as he was told, but even as he did, he saw the next move in the dark eyes. Damn it!

It was an instinct to protect, to defend his boss – his father. With a low growl, Charlie leaped forward toward the agent, fists clenched, jaw hard.

The reaction on the President's part was, of course, in hindsight, ill-advised, but at the moment, Jed Bartlet acted purely by impulse, his own sense of protection and love for a young man who was like a son taking over. Fortunately or unfortunately, he was successful, throwing his body between the agent and his impulsive protector, but his lunge was a little too slow to catch a trained bodyguard, and the hard butt of the rifle caught him square in the ribs and drove him to the floor.

"No!" Charlie's hoarse scream echoed through the cabin, but the man he was trying to save – who had now saved him – barely heard it.

Pain exploded across his chest and around his side as he crashed under the legs of the office desk, his head taking out the left support, unable even to lift up an arm to deflect the top that crashed down on his shoulder. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't feel anything but the white hot agony that burned his body and mind.

But he had to breathe, had to think, had to feel. He had to do something before this disaster took them all. Stay awake, he ordered himself. Get up! Get up! He had to stop them.

It wasn't enough, though. Even his own formidable stubbornness couldn't stand up to the physical trauma. The black tunnel rushed in on him from the sides, narrowing his vision to a small point until, even with eyes wide open, he saw nothing but darkness.

Ignoring any artificially bestowed power, his own body had refused to follow the commands of the President of the United States.


	7. The Oath

**Bounds of Freedom**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

**Chapter Seven – The Oath**

POV: Abbey

Spoilers: "ITSOTG;" "War Crimes;" "Manchester II;" "25"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: TWW characters are not my creation. Some of the Chinese characters are.

**Air Force One**

**11:55 p.m., Wednesday**

**Beijing Time**

"So what you're saying, Doctor Bartlet, is that the Chinese have a long way to go before they even come close to Western medical technology."

Abigail Bartlet smiled disarmingly, savvy to the reporter's calculated use of her medical title that so many had forgotten or ignored, but still having to force herself not to give into her own slice of satisfaction at hearing her name that way again.

They sat in the workroom just in front of the press section, belted in anticipation of the imminent take off. No use wasting time when she could be finished with this by the time they reached their cruising altitude.

"No, Candace," she replied smoothly, "I'm not saying that at all. I'm saying that this country's medical professionals have made great strides in the past twenty years and I feel certain that they will continue to improve the care and treatment for everyone."

In fact, she had been moderately surprised at the level of technology she had seen. But she knew, of course, that Chen Wenyuan had shown her only the best, the latest, the capstone of their offerings. And why not? Still, she also knew more than a little of the widespread lack of medical care, especially for those who subsisted on the meager fare of the rural areas.

Even her host doctor himself seemed a little hesitant when describing their accomplishments, as if he knew her comparison would bring them up short. He had been cordial, certainly, even solicitous, which she found to be all too rare a reaction from the dominant Chinese males. He had surprised her in the pediatric ward as she read to the young cancer patient, asking about Zoey and expressing both his sympathy about their kidnapping ordeal and his relief in the results. The pain that flickered in his dark eyes intrigued her, and suggested a personal tragedy in his past. But they had been too rushed and too crowded for her to ask anything in depth. Whatever it was had not diminished his skills, at least, she decided, after observing several near-miracles he had performed, despite the technological and political limitations under which he worked.

"Doctor Bartlet, according to unnamed sources – "

The reporter's question brought her back to the moment and a red flush of anger colored her face. Unnamed sources – how she hated that phrase. _According to tweaky little ill-informed chicken-ass wannabe_ –

" – that the Chinese population control has gone beyond just pre-conception techniques. Have you seen evidence of the stories that second children or female infants are aborted late term or even destroyed during birth?

How the hell had she gotten into this? Didn't the reporter comprehend that she worked for _Vogue_? Abbey had been expecting questions on what dress she would wear at the reception their last night in China, not national politics – and controversial politics at that.

Yes, she had heard the stories. No, of course no one had ushered her through a delivery room where anything like that was taking place. It enraged her to think that fellow physicians, whose oath was never to do harm, would actually cause death. But she also understood the delicateness of their situation, especially now, even though Jed had confided in her his feeling that the trip had been a failure. She still held faith in his ability to create something good from their apparent stalemate. Because of that – and despite her instinct to rip a government that couldn't see the benefits and sheer moral responsibility of putting more into healthcare than guns – she had to choose her words carefully, not always an easy task for the straight-spoken First Lady.

"Obviously, the Chinese people have had to deal with a difficult situation – how to slow an overpopulation that could lead to starvation and poverty with its mass. But there are other ways to do that. The United States doesn't and never will condone – " Should she say 'tolerate?' No, too much 'big stick.' " – the destruction of innocent lives."

The blonde head tilted just a tad. "By other ways, are you talking about contraception?"

Despite her strong Catholic faith, Abbey had always played a little loose with the birth control doctrine – just like she pretty much ignored the Ephesians teaching of submission of wives to husbands. And as much as he enjoyed bantering with her on the subjects, Jed was in full agreement. The contraception issue was more of a practical matter. She figured if they hadn't, as much as she and Jed liked to – well, there would most certainly be dozens of little Bartlets running around.

"Possibly," she answered, and took a breath in anticipation of trying to pull the conversation back to more _Vogue_-appropriate topics – like her hair style, perhaps.

But any concern over a misspoken quote vanished with the sudden commotion down the hall. The quick pops startled her, then terrified her when her brain identified them.

"Jed!" It was her first thought. Dear God, not again!

She had not been at Rosslyn, had not heard the shots fired in person, had not seen the blood that slowly soaked his crisp blue shirt. But she had heard the pain in his voice at the hospital, had seen the CT scan of the bullet's path, had kissed the scars on his abdomen and back that he would carry for the rest of his life. She knew the results of the act. Please don't let it happen again, she prayed, turning toward the nose of the plane. Please!

She had only gained a couple of strides forward before two of Hu Jintao's agents burst into the workroom, brandishing their weapons and barking out orders in broken English.

"Stand back! Not move!"

The ephemeral relief that caught in her throat melted into hot panic as she saw the weapons leveled not at any would-be assailant, but directly at her.

One guard, slighter than the other, with small pock marks across his cheeks, waved off the bewildered reports who had been making their way to their seats for take off. At the appearance of a cell phone in one unfortunate pressman's hand, the guard yelled out and let loose several shots straight into his chest. Her medical mind instantly assessed the damage. Most likely a direct wound to the heart muscle, almost certain destruction of at least one entire chamber. He was dead before he could blink again. No one else dared the same move. The stockier guard stepped to the American First Lady and jerked her up, rough arm around her waist, the cold barrel of the gun pressed against her temple.

"Back!" he yelled to the horrified passengers who were quickly comprehending that they had just become hostages.

Abbey gritted her teeth against the hard jarring as he dragged her with him into the hall. Where was Jed? What was happening to Jed?

And where the hell was Ron? It occurred to her that the President's principal protector should be right there, but the loyal, reliable bodyguard was no where in sight. Come to think of it, where were any American agents?

That question was answered too clearly as they entered the hallway, forced to step over and around at least four sprawled Secret Service bodies. She wanted to stop to see if they might be alive, but the grip remained solid, unmoving. She stumbled along with her abductor.

As they stumbled down the narrow passage, she looked around, eyes and ears straining for any sign of the person that was most likely their primary target. They were headed to the Presidential Suite. Please let Jed be there safe and sound. Please!

When the door swung open, she first saw Charlie, and his face gave everything away. No safe and sound, she knew then. Hu Jintao hovered by a window, eyes glazed, shoulders slumped. Behind her stood two more Chinese agents, faces wiped clean of any emotion, weapons held ready. Heart pounding, she scanned the room quickly. The only other figure besides the renegade agents rested under a pile of debris that used to be a desk – his desk, only the dark trousered legs visible beneath the wreck.

"Jed!"

Pulling away from the hard grip, she began clawing through the pile of desk ornaments and wood, not really realizing when another set of hands, young and just as determined, joined her. The splatters of crimson propelled her on until they had lifted the most confining slab and freed the body beneath. Automatically, her hand slid to his wrist, fingers pressed instinctively along the inside, searching for that vital sign that he was still with them – with her.

The pulse beat beneath her touch, thank God. Labored, but consistent, the lungs continued to fill and empty, although she heard the ominous low wheeze that couldn't be good. Satisfied that he was hanging on, she let her eyes and hands explore more fully. Blood matted the right side of his head, tracing down his face like dark tears, and his right arm cocked out at an awkward angle from his shoulder. Under the natural tan he usually sported, his skin had gone chalky.

The agents did not try to stop them from ministering to him. In fact, she was beginning to suspect that they had brought her there to tend to her wounded husband. Perhaps they hadn't intended to hurt him at all? Perhaps they needed him for something else.

"Charlie?" she asked, knowing he would understand.

The young man turned guilt-laden eyes on her. "I was going to try – I couldn't stop myself. When I saw the gun on him – I moved to stop them – "

"And he stopped them instead." He would have, too. She knew how deeply he loved Charlie.

The President's bodyman nodded miserably. "The biggest one hit him in the ribs with the butt of the rifle and sent him into the table."

She swallowed. No time to break down now. Jed needed her. "Okay," she breathed. "Okay, can we get him out from under there?" No one except Charlie move to help, but no one stopped them, either.

Together, they grasped both legs and tugged him gently away from the splintered wood. The President groaned at the movement. With as much professional dispassion as she could muster she ran her hands over his torso, but couldn't get a good feel with the bulk of his clothing in the way. "Help me get his jacket off," she ordered.

Then she decided the hell with dispassion. This was not some random victim of violence. This was Jed – her Jed.

As the moan slipped past his lips, she glanced up at Charlie, blinking away tears when she saw the moistness on his cheeks. They both grimaced, but managed to discard the coat by freeing his left arm first, then sliding the remaining sleeve gingerly over the right one. She slipped the tie loose, tossing it carelessly to the side, and tried to unbutton his shirt, but her fingers trembled so much she just ended up ripping it open. Swelling already distended the tissue and muscle over his side and chest, the reddened skin tightening in protest, the swirls of grey hair standing out in stark contrast. It took only a quick touch and an answering moan from him to identify the broken ribs. No immediate danger – unless, of course, he was bleeding internally. They would discover that much too late to help. She moved on to his arm. It didn't take a medical expert to diagnose a dislocated shoulder, but that was certainly the least of his worries. At first glance, the head wound looked frightening, but a quick examination revealed a deep, but non-fatal, laceration just in the hairline over his temple. As long as he didn't have a concussion –

Another commotion at the door revealed the near-panicked face of Chen Wenyuan, eyes frightened, black hair scattered. He stood just inside the room, staring at the scene before him. What a nightmare that must be, Abbey thought. The President of the United States sprawled bleeding and unconscious on the floor, his own leader cowering blank-faced in the corner. Abbey felt a sudden pity for him, even guilt perhaps, an innocent victim in this crime that Jed's mere presence had brought to him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, cleared his throat and asked, "The President?"

"He's alive," she answered, although she wasn't yet sure just how long that statement would hold true. "Are you all right?"

Now another emotion crossed his face – a strange look that, if she didn't know better would have seemed like guilt.

Turning her eyes back to the battered body beneath her hands, she asked, "Can you talk to them? See what they want?"

Jed groaned, eyelids fluttering, legs shifting with the early signs of coming back to consciousness. Come on, Jethro.

When the Chinese doctor didn't answer, she looked back up. The panic had relaxed into sadness. "I already know what they want," he said softly.

The tone of his voice, even more than his words, chilled her. Her brain processed the scene. The bodyguards stood, their weapons now held loosely, not trained on anyone in particular, and certainly not on Chen Wenyuan. They had not even shifted when he entered. Comprehension slammed into her. Surely he wasn't – he couldn't be –

"Doctor?" she gasped. The Oath – never do harm to anyone. To _anyone_.

His head moved slowly from side to side. "I'm – sorry."

At his nod, the pock-marked guard raised his weapon to his shoulder and leveled the end of the barrel to a point just above her left breast.

"I'm sorry."

THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH 

I swear by Apollo the physician, by Æsculapius, Hygeia, and Panacea, and I take to witness all the gods, all the goddesses, to keep according to my ability and my judgement, the following Oath.

"To consider dear to me as my parents him who taught me this art; to live in common with him and if necessary to share my goods with him; to look upon his children as my own brothers, to teach them this art if they so desire without fee or written promise; to impart to my sons and the sons of the master who taught me and the disciples who have enrolled themselves and have agreed to the rules of the profession, but to these alone the precepts and the instruction. I will prescribe regimen for the good of my patients according to my ability and my judgment and never do harm to anyone. To please no one will I prescribe a deadly drug nor give advice which may cause his death. Nor will I give a woman a pessary to procure abortion. But I will preserve the purity of my life and my art. I will not cut for stone, even for patients in whom the disease is manifest; I will leave this operation to be performed by practitioners, specialists in this art. In every house where I come I will enter only for the good of my patients, keeping myself far from all intentional ill-doing and all seduction and especially from the pleasures of love with women or with men, be they free or slaves. All that may come to my knowledge in the exercise of my profession or in daily commerce with men, which ought not to be spread abroad, I will keep secret and will never reveal. If I keep this oath faithfully, may I enjoy my life and practice my art, respected by all men and in all times; but if I swerve from it or violate it, may the reverse be my lot."


	8. Just Because You're Not Paranoid, Doesn'...

**Bounds of Freedom**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

**Chapter Eight – Just Because You're Not Paranoid, Doesn't Mean They're Not Out to Get You**

POV: Ron Butterfield

Spoilers: "HSFTTT;" "ITSOTG;" "20 Hours in America"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. If I did, Jed would be President forever.

**Air Force One**

**1:30 a.m., Thursday**

**Beijing Time**

He came to in pain, mainly a throbbing burn that pumped straight through his shoulder and spread down his chest and left arm. Instinct told him to move, to clutch at the wound, to cry out for help. Training kept him frozen to the floor. Slowly, he opened his eyes to slits, letting in just enough light to illuminate the surroundings. Still dark, he realized, and opened them wider. With effort, he sifted through his memory to the most recent events, working to categorize and analyze what had happened to place him in that particular situation.

The rounded walls and wired cages were instantly familiar, their angles shadowed in the dim lighting. Cargo Bay. Air Force One.

At that moment, grim realization struck. He had been attacked – by the Chinese president's own guards, no less. They had inexplicably and suddenly turned to him as they prepared for take off – and shot. How could he have been so careless? How could he have overlooked such a possibility? They had worked so hard to cover every single base, but the betrayal of Hu Jintao's hand-picked protectors had seemed so unlikely –

He had to get to the President.

What had he been thinking? He had to get to the President.

He had sworn his loyalty, had promised his life, had already been put to the test once. And while he had not really failed, he had not been completely successful, either. The bullet through Jed Bartlet's side was a harsh reminder of that.

Focusing more sharply now, he scanned his surroundings. A preliminary assessment revealed no one with him in what he determined to be the aft bay section. That gave him time to get his bearing, to build a plan. But he knew that this time was not really his – it was the President's. Every second he took might be one less the President had. Josiah Bartlet's death, or kidnapping, or even injury was not something Ron Butterfield was prepared to accept. Not again.

It was bad enough to dash into the Oval Office at a panicked summons to find his charge sprawled face-down on the plush carpet – even if it wasn't anything Ron could have prevented. "Eagle's down!" was not something he ever wanted to hear again. Of course, he hadn't heard that phrase in the limo after Rosslyn. He didn't have to. The bright flash of blood on the President's lips, the sickening splat of darker red that soaked his shirt told the whole story – another failure.

No. Not again. Not another failure. He simply would not accept it. Somehow, he would not let that happen.

But, dear God, what if it already had?

Unaccustomed to having emotion control him, the agent fought to get a grip on the disturbing wave of fear and anguish. He had a job to do. He would do it as he had always done it, as he had through three other Presidents already.

But this wasn't just another President. This was Jed Bartlet.

This was Jed Bartlet.

With a grunt, he drew himself up from the floor and looked around. They had left him, which meant they thought he was either dead or incapacitated enough that he was no longer a threat. At least it provided a moment to think.

First, he needed to know what kind of shape he was in, not for personal concern, but to determine how effective he could be in battle. The shoulder wound was the obvious place to start. Grimacing against the pain, he raised his right hand and explored the area, fingers slick with blood. Beneath the torn skin and muscles, grated the two halves of a severed clavicle. If that was the worst of it, he was good to go. Next time, he would wear the vest even on the plane.

Next time.

Trying not to grunt again, he pushed himself to a sitting position.

Oh God. Not a good idea.

When his vision returned, he worked on getting to his feet. Staying put was not an option.

He glanced at his watch. Damn it! Over an hour since the attack. If this was an assassination attempt, he was most certainly already too late. If it was a kidnapping, they had a chance. They were still on the ground, anyway. By this time, surely people knew what was happening. He reached for his Sig Sauer P229 and radio. Gone, of course.

Okay. The President would have been in his cabin, more than likely, maybe with the First Lady. Maybe they were – No, not yet. They usually waited until the flight was well underway for any "barbecuing." Even through the pain, he smirked at the thought. Charlie and Nancy had come up with the code they jotted down in the President's daily schedule for stolen intimate moments between the President and First Lady. The agent wondered if it would be a footnote in the archives when the Josiah Bartlet Presidential Library opened. No, he figured, no barbecuing on this flight, despite the sexually heated banter between the First Couple the night before at the opera. Xian was too close.

Damn.

Blinking his eyes, he tried to pull back his fragmenting thoughts.

Focus. Focus.

By now the terrorists – and they were, he knew – had made their demands, if any, and had created a plausible threat to the most powerful man in the world. The United States' response would be outrage, of course, but the leadership would not fall into the standard mantra that "the U.S. does not negotiate with terrorists." Not when it was the President of the United States.

He knew he was a key. Discounted as out of action, he could bring the essential element of surprise to their formula. First, he had to determine exactly what they hell was going on. The President had to be alive. He would not consider any other possibility. How could he get to him?

A sound behind him drew his attention, twisting his body painfully around, but he saw nothing past the ceiling-high cages. Stumbling against the wall, he slid toward the tail of the plane, eyes darting back and forth in search of the source. With a sly smile, he reached down patted his calf, smiling as he slid the small Tomcat Beretta from its holster. Not standard issue, but he figured he had earned a few liberties. Apparently, these guys hadn't watched enough American movies.

Gun drawn, left arm dangling uselessly, he continued his path of stealth, halting at each creak, each pop, each distant echo.

He heard it again, almost directly in front of him. He gripped the stubby handle tighter as the soft footsteps drew closer. A shadow flickered on the opposite wall near the aft steps leading down from the press seating. With a careful breath, he raised the weapon and leveled it on the anticipated target.

His brain slowed things down, played out the action in a frame-by-frame mode. One beat. Two beats. The shadow deepened, then merged with a solid body. Ron squeezed gently on the trigger, cutting nanoseconds off his firing time.

One more step – one more beat, and he'd have the guy.

One more –

"Leo!"

The Chief of Staff lurched against the bulkhead, an expletive flying involuntarily from his mouth as one hand clutched at his chest. It had truly been a hair's breath between a living Leo and a dead one. Ron gulped before blowing out a hard breath.

"Geez, you scared the shit out of me," Leo gasped, still letting the wall support his trembling legs.

"Not literally, I hope," Ron deadpanned, his dark humor a defensive mechanism to calm a situation that was anything but calm.

"Close," Leo told him, still dragging in the oxygen way too fast. "Uh, Ron, you can – point that – somewhere else – if you want."

Just realizing he still held the revolver dead level at Leo's heart, the agent swallowed again and slowly lowered it. "Sorry."

Now Leo took notice of the saturated dark material at Ron's shoulder. "Geez. You okay?"

Ron nodded. It didn't matter even if he wasn't. He wasn't the story. "Leo, where's the President?"

Josiah Bartlet's Chief of Staff would know. Jed Bartlet's best friend would know.

But Leo shook his head, pale eyes dulling with the pain behind them. "Not sure. In the suite, last time I – " He paused, and finished, " – when I left."

Ron knew the rest of the sentence anyway: _"Last time I saw him."_

"Where were you?" It wasn't an accusation. McGarry would already blame himself anyway.

"In the head, can you believe it? I heard – "

"Hu Jintao's agents," Ron completed.

"Yeah." Leo seemed a little stunned at that fact. "They shot a reporter – held them hostage in the press seating area."

"Why didn't they come after you?"

He almost smirked. "The occupied light on the door doesn't work. They didn't bother to do a visual."

"How'd you get out?"

"Waited until I heard the voices move forward. I took a chance. The aft steps were uncovered. I guess they thought you were dead." He took a breath and pushed away from the wall, wiping a trembling hand across his forehead. "We've got to get to the President, Ron."

No argument there.

But he had only taken a couple of steps before they heard the startling new rounds of gunfire. There was no mistaking the direction. It came from the forward section of the plane – from the general direction of the Presidential Suite.

With a groan, Jed Bartlet's best friend lurched forward, face twisted, and hissed, "We've got to get to him."

"Now," Ron agreed.

There was only one question: With the plane controlled by terrorists, how the hell would they do that?


	9. Over His Dead Body

I was INSPIRED at the School of the Americas Watch protest at Ft. Benning this past November, where I was privileged to meet Martin Sheen. What an incredible moment. In person, he was gentle and soft-spoken (and beautiful – what gorgeous eyes), except when he delivered a passionate, fiery speech that ended with an electrifying version of "Let My Country Awake." (And he was still beautiful.) What an experience!

**Bounds of Freedom**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

**Chapter Nine – Over His Dead Body**

POV: C.J.

Spoilers:

Rating:

Disclaimer:

**The White House**

**Wednesday**

**2:15 p.m. EDT**

"I've got Leo!"

The startling announcement by Josh Lyman, who had burst into the Oval Office in the midst of another dead-end contemplation of their options, brought a halt to all conversation. For just a moment, they stared in silence at the cell phone he held aloft. Then the words erupted from everyone.

"Leo?"

"Where is he?"

"Where is the President?"

"Is he all right?"

"What about the First Lady?"

"Quiet!"

The last command came not from the person with the most authority to deliver it, but from Jed Bartlet's press secretary. It did not occur to her until much later that she had shushed some of the most powerful people in the world. It was just that for the past half hour she been listening with increasingly unbearable anxiety and fear to the ongoing discussion of just how much they didn't know and couldn't do. Now, suddenly, they knew two things: One, Leo was alive. Two, he was able somehow to contact them. He had instantly become the focus of their hopes – and she prayed that he was in a position to turn those hopes into reality.

"Let me talk to him," Nancy McNally ordered, completely ignoring protocol, but the Vice President gestured impatiently toward Josh, who handed over the phone – with obvious reluctance. The hierarchy of power still held – for now.

C.J. exchanged wary glances with the deputy chief of staff, but all she got for her questioning brow was a curt head shake and shrug.

"Leo!" Russell called loudly into the phone, as if he could reach China without the amplifier. "Where are you?"

They all waited in complete silence – Secretary of State, Secretary of Defense, National Security Advisor, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Deputy Chief of Staff, and Press Secretary – hanging on every word the Vice President might utter that would bring them some tiny bit of information. Russell had toyed with sitting in the chair – THE chair, but had wisely restrained himself, perhaps because of the warning glare C.J. threw at him if he even got close to it.

"We're trying to get hold of a Secret Service agent, but so far – " He broke off for a moment, then said, "I see. Do you know if – "

Ask about the President, you amoeba-brained –

"I'm conferring with the leadership – yes, I think at this time, we need their help – what?" A scowl darkened his face. "Leo, I think I am capable of – yes, I see. Yeah – "

With barely controlled fury, the Vice President snapped the phone aware from his ear and extended it toward their group. The Secretary of State cleared his throat uneasily and stepped forward to accept it, but Russell shook his head.

"C.J.," he bit out.

What? The press secretary didn't move for a couple of seconds, not trusting that she had heard right. Did he say her name? Was he saying that in the midst of this frantic crisis, the President's closest advisor wanted to talk with HER? Not the Vice President, or the Secretary of State, or the National Security Advisor – but HER?

Numbly, she moved toward the phone and took it – their precious, fragile connection to the events that were shaping – or reshaping – their world.

"Leo?"

It was clearer than she had anticipated. Still, the signal broke up every few words. If he would only speak a little louder –

"C.J." Hushed, a stage whisper. He obviously couldn't speak freely. Where the hell was he?

"Leo, my God, what is going on?" Please tell us things are fine. Everything is under control. This is all just a huge mist –

" – not sure. Listen – don't have much time. Something's happened – been shots – "

"Where's the President? Is the President okay?"

" – don't know – was not with him when – started. They've killed – corps member."

They had all figured that. "Where's the President's detail?"

"Don't know – hijackers – Hu Jintao's men – "

What? They were Hu Jintao's men? "Hijackers?"

The room drew closer to her.

"What about Abbey?" She didn't tell him about the terms, about the threat to the First Lady.

" – don't know that either."

"Where are you? Why aren't you a hostage?" Not that she wanted him to be.

The answer started with a dry chuckle. " – was in the bathroom. I wanted so bad to – didn't know if Jed – "

His voice broke, and she easily caught the pain. He never called the President Jed in front of anyone else. Even over the line, she could feel the agony of needing desperately to go to his friend warring with the logic of escaping and getting real help.

He cleared his throat and regained control. "Had to find Ron – got down aft stairs – cargo – couldn't call earlier – right outside – "

"Is Ron there? Is he with you? What is he doing – "

"Here – hurt. There are – gunmen – seen at least three agents down."

"Are they – "

"Yeah." The flat tone told her anyway.

Dear God.

"Leo, don't do anything crazy. We're working on getting the Chinese and our guys coordinated to take the plane, but – " Should she tell him?

" – what?"

"They've threatened – they've threatened to kill Abbey if we don't meet their demands."

She heard the groan clearly from the other end. "What – demands?"

"Vague. Healthcare reforms."

"Are you – contact – anyone else?" The hope was evident in his voice. She hated to disappoint him.

"Not on the plane."

Nancy McNally stepped next to her. "Tell him we need him to stay out of sight. He's our only link right – "

A brisk ring interrupted her, and she stepped away to answer her cell phone. General Alexander joined her in a three-way conversation with someone on the other end. C.J. prayed that it was someone with an answer – a good answer.

"Leo," she relayed, turning back to her own conversation, "stay low. We'll need you to –"

"I know. C.J., listen – tell Nancy and Berryhill not – let – Vice President do anything stupid."

She glanced at Russell, who still fumed at the chief of staff's blatant slight. "Yes, sir," she assured him, as the second-in-command looked at her suspiciously. Easier said than done, perhaps.

"Ron – going up – get back – you."

"Leo, you can't – what if – " The line went dead before she could finish her admonition. They all stared at each other for a few beats. Then C.J. said, "He doesn't know anything about the President or First Lady."

There was an agonized collection of grimaces and sighs with this unwelcome bit of information.

"He has confirmed the death of the reporter," she continued. "Three agents dead, as far as he can tell. Apparently, he and Ron Butterfield are in the cargo hold. Sounds like Ron has been injured. I think – " She swallowed. "I think they are going to try to get to the President, if they can."

"What do the terrorists want?" Berryhill asked, subdued.

"They are Hu Jintao's bodyguards."

"What?"

"That's what Leo said."

"My God," Berryhill muttered, for once shaken.

Russell roused himself from the pout to ask, "What's he doing now?"

"Trying to get to the President," she repeated, a snap of impatience in her voice. Pay attention, you Colorado Cowboy.

"Okay." McNally stuck the cell phone back in her pocket and gathered them back together with her voice. "We have a plan. Special Forces. They're troubleshooting right now."

The Secretary of State asked, "When will they be ready to go?"

"Forty-five minutes."

"And we have targets ready, if necessary," General Alexander informed them grimly, and the impact that of that statement hit C.J. with a sickening thud.

C.J.'s head whirled with the sudden deluge of information. Wait, did he say 'targets'?

Targets?

Dear God. Did that mean if something happened to the President or the First Lady that America was prepared to start war? Then, deep down, despite her pacifist tendencies, despite her lifelong belief in peace, she admitted that if anything happened to the President or the First Lady, she'd be hard pressed not to push the damned button herself. She prayed it did not come to that decision.

Unusually silent for the previous exchange, Josh had finally had enough. Red faced, he blurted out, "What the hell are we waiting for? Forty-five minutes? No! They've gotta do something now! We don't know what the President and First Lady are going through. They could be – " He faltered, the sentence unfinished. No one doubted what he was saying. It was what they all feared, anyway.

Nancy's calm voice made an attempt to sooth. "Josh, we've got someone on the plane now. We're working on getting others on. We'll just have to wait until – "

"Until they kill the First Lady?" he asked bluntly. "Is that what we'll wait for?"

No one answered.

No one knew the answer.

But they did know one thing: If they did kill the First Lady, they might as well storm the plane, because the only way the terrorists would have gotten to Abbey Bartlet was over the President's dead body.


	10. Watching

Eventually, the timelines are going to meet, but hope the back and forth isn't too confusing.

**Bounds of Freedom**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

**Chapter Ten – Watching**

POV: Charlie

Spoilers: "A Proportional Response;" "The Fall's Gonna Kill You;" "DIW"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not my creations, but I love them, and I hope the PTB will take better care of them.

"One never gets to know a person's character better than by watching his behavior during decisive moments… It is always only danger which forces the most deeply hidden strengths and abilities of a human being to come forth."

Stefan Zweig

1881-1942

"Der Mann und seine Tat" ("The Man and His Feat")

**Air Force One**

**12:15 a.m., Thursday**

**Beijing Time**

Charlie Young watched the President – had been watching the President for almost six years. It was just one of the things he did. He opened doors for him, he put in wake up calls for him, he carried his jacket, he kept his daily schedule, he ran interference from inconvenient visitors (even high level ones), he alerted him to "barbecuing" opportunities when the First Lady was available, he served as a sounding board for toast composing – and he watched him. At first, he watched simply because this was the President of the United States and no little amount of awe kept his eyes trained on his new, unexpected boss. Then, he watched because he came to know the man behind the position, and because Jed Bartlet's warmth, humor, intelligence, and compassion had captured him, just as it had captured everyone who worked for him. Later, he watched because the First Lady asked him to, because this warm, compassionate, brilliant man had been cursed with a disease that threatened to rob him of all of those gifts.

So he watched, for many reasons. But now, standing in the Presidential Suite on _Air Force One_, he watched with a seething mixture of fear and anger and loathing. He watched as a man who was supposed to have sworn an oath to heal people threatened to steal a life – and not just any life – the very life he had been watching so faithfully all those years.

And another life that was inexorably intertwined with the first one.

Abigail Bartlet's jaw had risen in silent defiance of the gun barrel leveled at her chest, her hands still touching her husband's battered form, her body still hovering in protection over him.

Charlie watched the eyes of the guard. He saw the coldness there, the absence of guilt, of conscience. It would happen. Dear God, it would happen. And he couldn't let it. Not this time. The President couldn't step in front of him this time.

With a surge of adrenaline, he pushed forward, placing himself between the two people who were the closest thing he had to parents left in the world.

"No!"

He had called out before he even realized it, but even if he could have been given the chance to take it back, he would not have. For a moment, the guard's eyes met his, but he didn't let the fear reach the surface, didn't give in to the very real possibility he was about to die. Then, amazingly, Chen Wenyuan snapped out something in Chinese, and the gun slowly lowered until it pointed to the floor of the plane.

The President's bodyman briefly considered fainting, but that would have seriously detracted from his intentions of defiance.

"No. You are more valuable to us alive anyway," the Chinese doctor decided, but Charlie thought he saw relief in those dark eyes. He turned and said something else to one of the traitorous bodyguards, who, despite his look of doubt, nodded and left.

"Our terms, then," the physician explained, as Charlie tried not to gulp in the oxygen that had suddenly become easier to breath. "The demand of the international community for medical reforms in our country in exchange for – the life of Abigail Bartlet."

Charlie's teeth ground together in fury. How dare this man make the First Lady of the United States a pawn in a global game of chicken. His resolve not to do anything else stupid was sliding away in the face of an avalanche of anger. One guard was gone. If he was quick enough, he could take the other one – maybe. His muscles tensed in anticipation.

But a low moan from beneath him checked that impulse immediately.

Abbey Bartlet had fallen back to the floor and now cradled her husband's shoulders against her chest. Charlie heard the harsh grunt as the President fought back to the surface of consciousness. He saw her pull him closer, as if she could cling to the fine mist of reality that the weight of his body brought to her, dispelling the surreal events that came at them through a cloud of disbelief.

"Jed?" she whispered. It was intended only for him, but they all heard.

He didn't answer, but his body shifted, prompting another involuntary groan. Charlie saw the sudden grimace on that noble face, watched the shoulders tense as the pain became sharper with regaining consciousness.

After a moment, those famous blue eyes opened, clouded at first with confusion, then with discomfort. His wife whispered soothing words and tried to wipe the blood from the side of his face.

"Abbey – " Weak, but it sounded good.

"Shh," she ordered. "Just lie still."

His gaze flickered past her, and Charlie saw the confusion shift to anger when he looked at the bodyguards. "What – what the hell – "

"I believe we are hostages, sir," Charlie offered. The President turned to look in his direction, but gasped suddenly and stopped. "Sir?"

"I'm – okay," he grunted, completely unconvincingly.

Right. There was, of course, absolutely no way he was okay.

"Shut up!" the broken command from the remaining guard barked across the cabin, the tinge of desperation in its depths terrifying. Charlie began to wonder if they stood even a remote chance of getting out alive.

"Don't move too much, Jed," the First Lady instructed, her tone soothing. "I'm pretty sure you've got at least one cracked rib."

His eyes closed again. "I'm pretty sure you're right," he agreed ruefully.

To Charlie's surprise, Chen Wenyuan glared at the remaining guard and spat out something that sounded like a reprimand. Then, he turned back to his American colleague – or at least someone who had been a colleague until about 30 minutes before.

"How badly is he injured?" he asked, but Charlie found it hard to believe he really cared. Maybe he figured a dead President didn't help him much. He would be right.

Without moving her eyes away from her husband, she answered, voice curt, "Bad enough. Is this what you wanted? Is this going to get you whatever it is you're trying to get?"

"I had not intended for them to hurt him – or you. I had just wanted – "

"What?" The voice that asked that question was quiet, but firm. Jed Bartlet's eyes were open again, the blue darkened almost to gray, in pain or anger – or both. "What had you wanted? What in God's name made you do this?"

The Chinese doctor lowered his own eyes. "We had to have – we needed – no one had listened before. No one – I didn't want to – " As if suddenly realizing he was rambling, he straightened himself and cleared this throat. "We need sweeping medical reforms in this country. It has taken too long. We needed something to propel our leaders to action. World pressure. World attention."

A strange sound came from the President, and it took Charlie a second or two to realize it was a chuckle that broke off abruptly when his fractured ribs protested. "You sure – as hell – got that." His breathing sounded raspy now, more labored.

Abbey noticed, too, because she laid a hand over his head and urged him to lie still again. He ignored her.

"Help me – up," he ordered quietly to anyone who might follow it. No one moved.

"Help me up." Harder this time, expecting no disobedience.

He got it anyway. There was no doubt that the First Lady could be formidable when she chose to be – usually even when she didn't. Only a few ever dared to cross her, and when the staff found it necessary to "check the First Lady's temperature," the men almost always deferred to C.J., whose success could be considered mixed at best. This time, it was her husband who threw himself into the breach.

From the expression on his wife's face, Charlie figured he didn't stand a chance.

"Josiah Bartlet," she began, voice so sharp even the terrorists flinched.

Nope. Not a chance.

"If you think I'm going to help drag your stubborn ass off that floor so you can shove however many broken ribs you have into those hot-air lungs of yours, you've got more problems than just being held hostage right now."

A nonplussed Jed Bartlet was something few people had ever seen, but Charlie almost smiled, despite their decidedly unsmiling circumstances, at the rare expression of bemusement on the President's face. He stared at his wife for a long beat, then apparently decided that discretion was, indeed, the better part of valor.

"Abbey," be began finally in a more diplomatic tone, taking an extra beat to draw in a slow breath.

"No," she interrupted, not allowing him to continue.

Not a chance.

"Do you understand – "

"Abbey – "

"Do you understand that any movement could cause more damage? Do you understand – "

"Abbey – "

" – that if one of those ribs punctures your lung, the only way you will live is to get to an OR within minutes – "

"Abbey – "

" – and our situation doesn't look too promising for that possibility right now? Do you understand that you very likely have a concussion, as well – "

"Abigail!" The President set his jaw and rose up on one elbow, face pale, arm shaking, but eyes snapping. Charlie could not even imagine where he had found the strength. "I understand," he ground out, finally getting in more than one word. "I understand that the worst nightmare of the Secret Service is in progress right now. I understand that there doesn't seem to be anyone who can change the situation from the outside. I understand that this is my watch, that this is my responsibility."

"How can you say it's your respon – "

"I understand that how I respond to this will dictate what happens today, and tomorrow, and fifty years from now." He was shaking hard now, but refused to let go, refused to give in to defeat, even from his own body.

"Jed – "

"Abbey." And his entire argument was completed in that one word, in that one tone. His eyes warned and pleaded at the same time, sent a message that even Charlie could read. This was important. This was what he had to do.

Get him the hell up now.

After a long, tense moment, she sighed, frowned, and nodded. With a gesture from her, Charlie leaned down, and grabbed his left elbow as Abbey did her best with the injured right shoulder to help him lever himself from the floor. Blood trickled down the President's forehead and over the bridge of his nose. He didn't pay it any attention.

Jed Bartlet was not a big man, but he was solid, his muscles still well-honed despite the intermittent attack from the disease. As his bodyman, Charlie had seen him often enough in various stages of undress to know that the President had a physical strength casual observers might not expect. Still, it was no easy task to pull him from the deck, even with his struggling assistance.

Finally, he made it to his feet, although he ended up bent over and clutching his midsection, sweat beading across his forehead, blood still seeping from the wound over his temple, eyes tight, teeth clenched. The First Lady slipped her arm around his back for support. Charlie followed suit and felt the sharp flinch that resulted. The President's teeth clacked together again hard and he sucked in a sharp breath before managing to clap down on control once more. Charlie winced with him.

"I'm sorry," Abbey whispered, eyes glistening, and Charlie could almost see her heart twisting at the clear agony in her husband's eyes.

The crimson trickle had made its way down his face and dripped from his jaw. "I'm – all right," he assured them, but no one pretended to believe him.

The effort had apparently taken all of his strength for the moment, because he didn't try to take a step, but swayed in place, still accepting their support. Charlie watched his eyes. Eyes that could say so much. Eyes that could be soft with compassion, or twinkling with mischief, or warm with love, or hard with command. Eyes that now showed a volatile mixture of fury, fear, and determination. And it scared the hell out of him because the action that hovered behind those eyes promised almost certain death, if followed through. If the damn fool got himself killed, his wife would never forgive him – and neither would Charlie.

"What do you want?" the President asked Chen, making another effort to straighten, this time with moderate success.

A flash of emotion passed over Chen's features, perhaps from his own situation, perhaps from witnessing such an impressive victory over such substantial blockades. "Medical reforms," he said after a pause. "We want real medicine, real treatment for everyone. Money to research cures for – for the vilest diseases."

Charlie's eyes shifted between the President and First Lady. Her eyes had widened; his had narrowed. He knew what they were thinking, felt the irony of the situation, as well.

"You want medical reforms?"

The doctor nodded.

"You're threatening to kill us – have already killed – and you want MEDICAL REFORMS?" If he had been able, Jed Bartlet would have yelled, but Charlie saw the strength drain from him even from the effort of a harsh whisper. His tentative stance faltered, and he bent again, staying on his feet only with the support of his bodyman and wife. But he waved off any attempts to get him to lie down again.

After another tentative breath, Bartlet turned his head toward the frozen form by the window. "Mister President," he called.

Charlie had almost forgotten about the Chinese leader. Hu Jintao slid a tentative glance their way but did not move otherwise.

"Mister President, you have – a problem, I believe." He coughed once, a sharp, harsh sound that was followed by a grunt and a grimace. "What – are you – going to do – about it?"

The slighter man turned now, his eyes sad. "I cannot change things overnight. And now I cannot change for – for terrorists."

"Agreed. But can you – change for – your people?" the American President wondered, coughing again, this time jerking the two who held him. Charlie felt more of his boss' weight against him.

"You tell this to me, Mister President?" he returned, finally emerging from his shell. "Your country makes clear it does not negotiate with terrorists. Mine does not either. We are – alone, then."

He was right, Charlie knew, but he wasn't right, because, despite the clear policy that the United States had always proclaimed, this situation had never occurred before. This situation had never been broached. This situation broke all rules. He knew there had to be frantic negotiations going on even at that moment. He knew those back in Washington would be desperate to save their President – their friend. He just hoped they figured out something fast, because one way or another, Josiah Bartlet didn't have much time.

"I guess – it's up to – us, then," Bartlet murmured, turning back to the Chinese doctor. "If you want reforms, you're going to have to – get them another way. I can't let you use the – President of the United States as a bargaining tool – "

"Jed!"

Charlie started at the alarm in the First Lady's voice at the same time the body between them started to sink.

"No," Bartlet choked, even though his body was finally betraying him, losing its strength completely. "No, I won't – "

But he did.

The two of them couldn't hold up the sudden dead weight in their arms. As Jed Bartlet's eyes fluttered shut and his head fell back, his body collapsed, sending all three of them hard to the floor. Charlie was able to twist just a little at the last minute to place himself partially below the President, cushioning his fall enough to prevent the already bleeding head from hitting again.

And there they lay, the most powerful man in the world, his wife, and his bodyman, crumpled on the deck of the Presidential Suite on _Air Force One_.

Fear and anger boiled inside him. Where the hell was Ron Butterfield? Where the hell was Leo McGarry? Where the hell was the 82nd Airborne?

But then Charlie looked into the distraught eyes of the First Lady and the fear and anger twisted into a strong column of determination that it wasn't going to end here. Not this way. Not if he had anything to do with it.

He had lost a father and a mother once before. It wouldn't happen again.


	11. Survival of the Fittest

Here's the next chapter. For those who wanted more angst, you got it! Thanks so much for the feedback.

**Bounds of Freedom**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

**Chapter Eleven – Survival of the Fittest**

POV: Chen Wenyuan

Spoilers: None specfically

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not mine.

**Air Force One**

**2:30 a.m., Thursday**

**Beijing Time**

This was taking too long, Chen realized. Way too long. But, he supposed, there were some complications to be expected when threatening the life of the First Lady of the United States – not to mention the President. Still, it was taking too long, and as more time passed without response from the either the Americans or his own people, he began to consider the uncomfortable possibility that he had orchestrated a colossal error.

He wondered at what point he had made the mistake. Perhaps it was bringing in power-seeking goons to replace Hu Jintao's body guards – but he couldn't have gotten even this far without them. Perhaps it was not waiting until they were airborne to make the move. Again, the goons made that choice for him. Perhaps it was underestimating the stubbornness of the American President, who, for all that he was a soft and decadent Westerner, had also proven himself stubborn and disturbingly unconcerned with his own well being. Chen had yet to find a weakness that he could exploit.

And so he wavered uncertainly, watching the minutes tick by, caught up in an international incident he had created, an incident that had led – at least within the confines of their cabin – to a communist versus capitalist challenge. Fighting for patience, he watched the two main players in the contest.

Josiah Bartlet leaned against the bulkhead of his office, body stiff and propped, his wife on one side, his bodyman on the other, both looking as if anyone who tried to get to him would definitely have to go through them first. Sweat beaded on his brow, and the Chinese doctor couldn't help but wonder how the trauma to his body was affecting his existing disease. Probably hadn't helped it much.

Hu Jintao still stood by the small window, his own body stiff, not from injury and pain but from all the other ailments of the mind that must be accosting him.

Yes. This was taking too damned long.

"Why don't they call?" Chen asked the room, unable to keep up his vigil of outlasting whoever was making the decisions. Another mistake, perhaps. The big decision makers were there with him. "Why don't they do something about this?"

Bartlet lifted his head and Chen almost recoiled from the hardness of those cool blue eyes. "The United States does not negotiate with terrorists," he quoted the decades-old policy.

Chen's eyes widened at the word. Terrorist! "I am a patriot," he insisted. "I have never been a terrorist."

But the steel gaze of the American President leveled him. "You are now."

No! He was a patriot. He was doing this for good, couldn't they see that?

"And you must understand that I cannot give in to terrorists, Mister President," Hu Jintao interjected immediately. "No matter what their cause. You must know this."

Bartlet nodded, a curt, harsh movement, and shifted his gaze. "I know," he agreed, then took a shallow breath. "But, Mister President, when this is over, if there are real needs – "

"The People's Republic of China takes care of its own," his counterpart declared.

Right, thought Chen. Just like they had taken care of his daughter, and his wife.

"We do not need the 'great' Americans telling us how to run things." Anger flowed from the Chinese leader, but a touch of defensiveness, too.

"I'm not – " the American President began, but broke off as he tried to lift his injured arm. "Damn it!"

It had been almost three hours since the takeover, three hours of almost constant pain, Chen knew, for the President. The only relief he might have had was the thirty minutes he had been out, collapsing after his first appeal to his attackers. The shoulder was still dislocated, the ribs were still broken, and the head was still slashed. All in all, Chen considered it amazing he was even conscious again, much less lucid and logical.

"Abbey," Bartlet bit through clenched teeth, holding one hand against the shoulder. "Can't you do something about this?"

Chen listened carefully, a physician's curiosity to her response, welcoming the distraction from his increasingly unbearable wait.

She frowned. "It would be better to wait until we had the proper medical care. You can't tell what ligaments are damaged – "

He curled the fingers of his good hand around her wrist and tugged her closer to him, lowering his voice, but they could all hear anyway. The cabin was not that big.

"I can't think, Abbey. I can't move." He steadied himself for a breath. "It hurts even to breathe. I can't – I need to be able to think, here. I've got to convince – I need you to put it back in place. I need you to do that."

"The pain when you breathe is from your ribs – "

"Abbey."

She stared at him for a long moment, eyes holding his. Chen saw years of communication behind that look. Years he had never had – would never have – with his own wife.

Finally, she sighed heavily and nodded. "Charlie."

The dark-skinned young man dragged his eyes away from his President. "Ma'am?"

"Hold him."

He frowned himself, hesitating until his boss said, "It's okay, Charlie."

With one arm gingerly cradling the President's waist and the other braced against the middle of his back, Charlie nodded. "Okay."

Despite his attempts to be see these people as simple pawns in his plan, Chen found himself wincing in anticipation of the next move, as Dr. Bartlet took her husband's arm in one hand and pushed against his shoulder with the other.

"I don't suppose I need to tell you this is going to hurt like – "

The pop echoed off the cabin walls, followed immediately by an explosive gasp and fierce curse.

Bartlet's face drained white, and he sagged in his bodyman's grip, sinking to his knees.

"I've got you, sir," Charlie assured the man quietly, pulling the shaking body against him. "I've got you."

They watched as the color slowly crept back into the President's cheeks, as he dared to open his eyes and take quick breaths. After a good three minutes, he pushed away, somehow getting to his feet and gingerly testing the re-located limb. Surprise registered clearly on his features and he almost smiled. "Better," he decided. "Thanks."

His wife clucked her tongue and sighed, her own breath coming a little easier. "Don't mention it."

With renewed vigor, or as much vigor as he could muster and still cope with the pain from his ribs and head, the President turned back to the Chinese leader.

"Don't do it because of this," he argued. "We can say we had already been discussing reforms in our private meetings. You can be a pioneer, Mister President."

Chen watched his leader with minor interest. For the first time, Hu faltered, the new light behind his eyes evidence that he might finally be considering Bartlet's case.

"We are here to serve the people," he assured the American President. "Our government provides for everyone."

Chen narrowed his eyes at Hu Jintao's remarks. "They say they are for the people, but it's not true. They are only for the healthy people, the strong. Let the sick die. We already have too many, anyway. Survival of the fittest, as your Darwin said."

Bartlet extended a hand. "There's a better way to make your case known," he suggested.

"Better than holding hostage the Presidents of China AND the United States?"

"I see your point," Bartlet conceded. He shifted with a not-quite suppressed grimace. "But no one is going to listen to you now. You are a terrorist, whether you want to call yourself that or not. If you hadn't resorted to violence – "

"You would never have been aware of these needs. You would probably not even remember my name."

Strangely, the President chuckled. "My not remembering your name is not necessarily an indication – "

"We wouldn't be here," Chen pointed out.

"I can't argue that with you." He cocked his head curiously, making Chen feel as if those eyes could look straight through him. "What is your reason for all this?"

"I told you, our country needs medical reforms – "

"No. That's not why. Nobody does this for some vague need to be altruistic. What happened to you? Or to your family?"

How could this man know? How could he read him so easily?

"That child at the hospital," The First Lady asked, voice almost gentle. "She was about the same age as your daughter when she died, wasn't she?"

Chen started, noticing similar jolts of surprise from Bartlet and Hu Jintao. The First Lady was just as perceptive as her husband. He had not talked with anyone about that in sixteen years. "How – "

"I saw it in your eyes," the First Lady explained. "The loss. The pain, when you looked at the other girl."

For a moment he wanted to give in, to forget everything, all the sacrifice to that point. He was back to that terrible moment, those dark, dark days. The U.S. President took a tentative step forward, sweat pouring down the side of his face, trailing through the dried blood. He pressed a hand against the newly-relocated shoulder, bracing it for the jarring move. In some distant consciousness, Chen pondered how on earth this man could still be standing.

"Doctor," Bartlet said, extending his good arm in front of him. "Don't let this be the way it ends. Don't let her death be the impetus for more killing." The relief over his shoulder had vanished, and they all saw that he could barely stand, his body shaking again, his speech slurring a little. "Chen." It was soft – one-on-one. He pushed his right hand toward the doctor.

He was persuasive, Chen would give him that. He almost sounded sincere.

"I almost lost my daughter," he whispered, and the First Lady failed to choke back a sob at the thick emotion in his voice.

At that point Chen couldn't see how he was still on his feet, what was keeping him from crumpling right there into the floor.

Willpower. Stubbornness. Courage. Nobility.

It would be so easy. Deep down, Chen knew he really didn't want to kill these people. They had earned the right to live. Certainly, the American President had grown in stature in his attacker's eyes. And the fact that he had not seen anything of the rest of their accomplices in almost an hour loomed ominously. For the first time since he had placed it by the door, he allowed himself a glance at the black case, the last effort, the desperation move.

What would happen if he gave up now? He would die – that much was certain, but would his death bring about the reforms that could have saved his daughter? Would Bartlet be able to talk Hu Jintao into relinquishing enough control over the State-run medicine to make those strides. He looked back at the Chinese president but saw no comprehension, no willingness to bend.

Abbey Bartlet had moved closer, was right next to him, her eyes compassionate, her face soft.

No!

He couldn't let her persuade him. He couldn't let go now. Her touch was light, just a brush of his arm, but he reacted instinctively to the threat of emotion that would break him down. Without even thinking, he drew the limb back hard, his hand slapping her in the jaw and pushing her away from him.

"You son of a bitch!"

It only took an instant, but it was a costly instant. He knew immediately this would be his final mistake.

Before he could turn his body back, someone was on him – someone who looked liked the President of the United States, but was at that moment simply an enraged husband and lover who had shattered any debris of political diplomacy. Chen staggered as the surprisingly powerful fist caught him square in the mouth, sprayed the metallic taste of blood against his tongue.

He should have known. Bartlet did have a weakness.

But before he could respond either to retaliate or to calm, the remaining bulk of a guard had taken matters into his own hands and slammed the butt of his rifle once more into the already fragile ribs of his attacker.

The President dropped to the deck, face twisted in agony, good arm clutching at his stomach. Chen noted that small bubbles of pink foam finally dotted his lips, evidence that the ribs had sliced into his lung. He wouldn't last long, now.

"Mister President!" The cry came from the young bodyman, who took only a moment to stare at his boss before he leapt, with a hideous snarl, toward Chen. Only the guard's rifle aimed directly at the First Lady stopped his impulsive action.

The one directly under threat now paid no attention, all of her focus on the man groaning on the floor. He would be down for some time, now. Forever, possibly, depending on how bad the puncture was.

It was over, Chen saw. Nothing to save them. He wondered if the guard had any idea or if he was also prepared to go down with them. Didn't matter. He didn't have any choice. Reforms would not be forthcoming from this mission; that too was clear. He had failed.

He had failed her. He had failed his country. He had failed himself.

That left him only one choice. His eyes moved again to the plain briefcase. Final hour. It was time.

Like a wave, the resolve swept back over him and he acted before the doubts could weaken him again. He bent, saw his own hand reaching for the case.

Time staggered, breathing slurred.

The sounds in the cabin blurred to incoherence. Only a few more seconds and it would be over. The explosion would be quick. The dust would be left to his ancestors. He would have no descendents.

One more move.

One more.

"No!"

Time snapped back into place with the hoarse cry. Chen looked up just in time to see the blur of two bodies flying at him.


	12. Contradiction of Courage

**Bounds of Freedom**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

**Chapter Twelve – Contradiction of Courage**

POV: Leo

Spoilers: None

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not mine.

"Courage is almost a contradiction in terms. It means a strong desire to live taking the form of a readiness to die."

Keith Chesterton Gilbert

_Orthodoxy_

1909

**Air Force One**

**2:45 a.m., Thursday**

**Beijing Time**

Leo McGarry forced himself not to turn away as the body of the second Chinese guard they had encountered dropped to the deck, the grotesquely angled neck clear evidence of his cause of death. It wasn't as if violence was foreign to the former fighter pilot. He had seen combat. He had witnessed death before, but that had been many years – and many healings – ago.

Ron turned from his task and regarded him without emotion. He supposed that was necessary to the job. He was glad it wasn't his job.

"You think that's it?" he asked, hoping for an affirmative answer from the Head of POTUS Detail.

"Don't know." Only the additional tightness around Ron's eyes revealed the pain Leo knew he must be in. They had tried to immobilize the wounded shoulder, but it was an amateur job at best. The agent needed real medical help. Neither man had any doubts he would ignore that until he had secured the President. And they both had to assume he would. To think otherwise was – well – unthinkable.

Although their goal lay at the nose of the bird, they both had determined that the tail section gave them the better opportunity to sneak back up onto the second level.

They had met the first guard about halfway through, taking him completely by surprise. Ron had snapped his neck like a twig, the sickening crack just making a vague sound among the ambient noise of the plane. This last one had chosen the wrong time to take a smoke, the light from his cigarette the giveaway. Leo mused, with morbid humor, that he should have heeded the Surgeon General's warning.

The trek through the cargo bay had been agonizingly slow. Despite their desperation to get to the President, they knew they couldn't just plow their way through the plane toward the Suite. Leo himself had counted at least four terrorists, and Ron remembered seeing three before he fell to their bullets. Whether or not they were the same, they didn't know. To be safe, they had to assume at least seven combatants were on board.

Five now, he corrected grimly, glancing back at the body.

With as much daring as stealth would allow, they zig-zagged their way back through the cargo hold, ducking at each pop, flattening against the wall with each creak. It had been too long since the takeover, too many minutes since he had heard the shots, much too close to the place he had last seen Jed Bartlet. Leo's skin crawled with the fear and anxiety of not knowing what was going on above them – with not knowing what was going on with HIM. But he pushed on, absolutely refusing to consider that his closest friend might be beyond their help by now.

As they approached the rear stairs, Ron motioned for him to slow. The agent took a tentative step up, then another, his pistol lifted and ready. Leo edged up behind him, straining to see what they might encounter, hoping this part had been evacuated or rescued. Surely by this time whatever General Alexander and Nancy McNally had planned was underway.

A quick grunt from Ron stopped him, and he held his breath as he saw the shadow that hovered at the top of the stairs. A terrorist, perhaps. If Ron could surprise him like he had the others, maybe they stood a chance of getting up there.

Carefully, the agent slid up the wall, unconcerned that he left smears of blood as he passed. The shadow remained, apparently unaware that it was under threat. With a sudden move, Ron leapt from the final step and shoved the barrel of the gun against the solid body they had known was there.

"Don't move!" he ordered, voice warning against any attempt to fight.

The returning voice was calm, acerbic even. "Not a problem, but I think eventually I might have to move to go change my underwear."

Damn! Relief coursed through the chief of staff. "Toby!"

Ron fell back, dropping the gun from the communication chief's head but still keeping it handy.

"Leo!" Toby croaked, running a hand over his beard. "Thank God. Where's the President? What's happened to the President?"

A dozen journalists gathered behind him, hand-held recorders forgotten in their own personal desire to hear the answer to that particular question.

"I don't know."

The tension of the group crackled in the air. Toby pressed his lips together for a moment before nodding. "We took two of them down – sheer numbers," he explained. "We've tried to move forward, but they have everything past the conference room covered."

Leo glanced around at some of the reporters, their cell phones cocked and ready. "You got lines outside the plane?"

One of them nodded, a familiar face, but Leo didn't have time to place her name. "The story's out – at least from this end."

"Where – "

Toby gestured to the first row of seats, and Leo nodded in grim satisfaction at the sight of two guards lying on their sides, bound and gagged, with a variety of rope, cord, and clothing. They were still alive. He wasn't sure if he was glad or not.

"We're going to need your help," Ron announced bluntly.

Toby straightened. "Of course."

"All your help," the agent told the room.

To a man, each reporter stepped forward, fire in every eye, determination on every face. These men and women whose job it was to question, to probe, to challenge the President of the United States at every turn, now stood united to help him. Leo saw in those eyes more than just a patriotic commitment to a leader. He saw a personal devotion and concern for a man.

The push through the plane proved to be much easier than they had thought. Apparently, the remaining terrorists had gathered near the nose where they could control access to their main hostages. As they moved forward, they picked up three more secret service agents who had managed to isolate the attackers close to the President's quarters. The agents stole along past the press area, the workroom, and up the skinny hallway, Leo, Toby, and several determined reporters following right behind.

Along the way they trampled over the bodies of four more attackers, unconcerned with any desecration of the dead. That should leave only a few enemy combatants to overcome, Leo calculated. Probably barricaded just outside or inside the Suite. He grimaced as they passed the open, unseeing eyes of the Navy captain who had accompanied them to serve as the President's person physician. He couldn't help any of them now.

"Down!" Ron called, and he complied instantly, ducking just in time to hear the zing of a bullet past his ear. The returning fire lasted only a few seconds and after that – silence.

"Go!" the agent called, no longer cautious, but almost sprinting the few yards left to the destination.

The walls dripped with the blood of the last guard who foolishly challenged the President's own guard, already bristling at their earlier failures.

Then, there it was. The door they had sought for so long, the Presidential symbol still bold and strong. Leo prayed the man behind the symbol was, too. Ron gestured with his good arm to the three agents with him, and without hesitation, they flung themselves against it. The door gave way, bursting open with a resounding crack. Instinctively, they stood aside for their boss, knowing he had to be first to the President. It was his responsibility, his charge.

Ron exploded through the opening, Berretta leading the way, ready to take whatever lives were necessary in the protection – or, Leo was so afraid, the recovery – of his charge.

Leo had imagined many scenarios on his way through the plane, many scenes he might encounter as soon as that door opened. The best one had Jed Bartlet, safe and sound, grinning and telling him things were fine. But that was fantasy, even though his brain refused to relinquish the unrealistic hope. A more plausible vision had the President held in front of a crazed terrorist, gun barrel pressed against his temple. But the worst one – the one he couldn't vanquish no matter how he had tried – had his best friend sprawled face-down on the deck, the dear lifeblood spreading uselessly beneath him. It had haunted him for the past three hours, had clenched his gut and twisted with every echoing shot above them.

Now he was there. Now he would see which nightmare they faced.

But as Ron cleared the way, Leo stumbled to a halt, staring open-mouthed at the sight before him. None of his imaginings had conjured this.

Three men wrestled fiercely on the deck, limbs entwined, pushing and straining for leverage, for control. He ducked, trying to identify them. Charlie Young had the top position, his body pressing down on the other two, one arm above his head, hand gripping someone's wrist. On the bottom of the pile, the doctor who had escorted Abbey around the hospital that morning struggled, legs kicking, one arm held by the bodyman, the other clutched around something dark in the middle of all of them. What the hell was going on? What was the doctor doing –

But he forgot about that when his brain clicked again and he realized who was sandwiched between the first two.

"Jed!" No protocol here. This was his friend.

Leo knew Jed Bartlet was not a fighter – at least not a physical fighter. He won his battles by his wits, his words, his intelligence. On one occasion, however, years ago, both men had participated in a youthful scuffle against two brawny Michigan upperclassmen, initiated by Leo's quick Irish temper. Exhausting his efforts to resolve the situation with words, Jed's loyalty to his scrapping friend pulled him reluctantly into the fight, performing – to Leo's surprise – with strength and agility. Looking on them now, though obviously injured in some way, judging by the splatters of blood across his blue shirt, he could see that the older Jed still remembered a few of those moves.

Leo tried to imagine what had happened. This doctor was somehow involved in the situation. Charlie had taken the chance to overpower him and Jed couldn't let the young man he saw as a son risk himself alone. Or maybe Jed had moved first with Charlie following. Damned fools, both of them.

All of this flashed through his brain in nanoseconds even as he and Ron lunged toward them.

"Stop!"

The harsh cry froze them, and they looked up to see a rifle held on them by a hulking Chinese guard, whom he assumed had once been one of Hu Jintao's entourage. Another quick glance revealed the Chinese President himself, staring at the melee, and Abigail Bartlet, one hand to her throat, the other arm extended as if she were trying to figure out a way either to break things up – or to get in on it herself.

Okay. What the hell was happening? He didn't have time to overanalyze, couldn't dissect what action would best help his friend. But he did know one thing. The lone guard had used up any mercy he might have gotten before. His eyes met Ron's. With only a minute nod of his head, the agent relayed the signal to his man behind him. The single shot thumped through the middle of the guard's forehead. The man swayed for a moment, his eyes going glassy, then crashed to the deck.

Done. Thank God it was over –

"A bomb!"

What?

Hu Jintao unfroze and stumbled forward. "Bomb!"

"What?" What the hell did he say?

"The briefcase they fight over. It is a bomb."

Oh God! Leo spun around. "Out! Get everyone out of here." Oh God!

The agents looked to Ron for orders. He nodded and they acted instantly, gathering up the civilians and shoving them back down the hallway toward the press area. No one protested. Leo reached toward the pile, intent on pulling Jed off, but Ron jerked his arm back.

"Don't touch them," he yelled. "If someone's hand is holding the detonation device, jarring it away could set off the bomb."

Well, what the hell were they supposed to do, then? The three men still struggled, inadequate shields of muscles and flesh against the imminent explosion that would rip _Air Force One_ apart.

Suddenly, Leo realized that Abbey still stood, arm reaching out, face bone white. Ignoring protocol, Ron detail grabbed the First Lady's arm and pulled her toward the door.

"Yes!" he agreed. "Get her out." Then he turned to the men still entangled on the deck. Time to get HIM out of there, too. "Mister President," Leo began.

From under the pile, a familiar voice, strained, but still commanding, ordered, "Leo! Get her – out of here. Everyone get – out of here!"

"Not without you, sir!"

"Damn it, Leo," he grunted. "I don't – have time to – I'm ordering you to – get the – hell out! Now!"

Fat lot of good that would do. There was no way in hell he was leaving Jed Bartlet to die on that plane, bomb or no bomb. "I'll get Abbey off," he told him.

At that moment, the doctor kicked hard against the other two, catching the President in the stomach. His agonized gasp tore through Leo's heart, but he managed one more plea. "Abbey – get – out!"

"Go!" Ron commanded to everyone around, which included Toby, Leo, and two lingering agents. "Get off the plane!"

Abbey jerked free of him, her green eyes sharp, hard. "No."

"Mrs. Bartlet, I don't have time to argue – "

"Then don't. I'm not going anywhere without him."

Leo knew they didn't have time. The three still struggled beneath him. He got a better glimpse of the President's condition, and it wasn't reassuring. His shirt was open, the tails splattered with blood, the skin beneath distended and bruised. Blood coated the side of his face, as well, and Leo wondered how on earth he was fighting so fiercely with such injuries.

He had to stop this. He had to get in there and get Jed away from more damage, but how could he get the case without compromising the contents? How could he get the President away from it without triggering Armageddon?

In the midst of his thoughts, he saw a flash of grey push past him and gaped as the cool, level-headed Ron Butterfield had apparently determined that it was now or never, and waded into the fray, lending his fading strength to the efforts of Charlie and the President.

His decision made for him, Leo forgot any plans and dived in, as well. He saw the case, still clutched in the Chinese man's hands, but the President had managed to wrap his own hand around the handle and seemed to be hanging on for dear life. Was the handle the trigger? Did Jed know that? Charlie was able to keep the terrorist's other hand away, maybe in the hopes that no detonation button could be activated, if there were even such a thing on it. It might just be timed to blow them all away in five seconds.

Ron and Leo shoved their bodies between the others and the case. Their additional leverage did the trick. Fighting with his good arm, Ron tore the bomb away from its owner and jerked in up into his own grip, having to take an extra moment to pry the President's hand off. As soon as it was clear, the doctor tried to scramble out from under them and leap to his feet, but before any of the Americans could act, Hu Jintao surprised them all by throwing his body in a flying tackling and driving him back to the ground.

Without a word, Ron turned toward the door, intent on getting that bomb as far away from the President as possible, but they all saw him stagger, the loss of blood and trauma finally catching up with him, and fall against the wall. Leo started to move, to take the case himself. He was expendable now. The President wasn't. If he could just get it off the plane –

But Charlie Young pushed past him, ripped the danger from Ron's hands and dashed into the hallway.

Damn it! No!

He was gone, though, and Leo's heart sank at the courage and sacrifice this young man had chosen. He loved Jed Bartlet, and now he was giving his own life to save him. Leo said a rusty prayer and hoped that Charlie could at least get far enough away that they stood a chance of surviving the blast, that his unselfish action would not be in vain.

Turning back to the scene before him, he caught Abbey by the shoulders and pulled her to him, both of them taking in huge gasps of air. Hu Jintao, with Toby's help, had the Chinese doctor well in hand. That left only Jed –

He knelt beside his friend, his commander-in-chief. Jed Bartlet lay on his side, blood trailing down the handsome face, smearing across his exposed and swollen torso. He was battered – that was the only word for it – and Leo realized with horror that he must have been beaten. But the most terrifying sight was the crimson that now trickled from his mouth.

"Abbey!" Leo called. The First Lady was already there.

" – bomb – " the President tried to ask, somehow still conscious, choking on the blood.

"It's gone. It's all right," Leo assured him, pressing a hand gently against his shoulder, hoping he was telling the truth. "Hang on."

Stubbornly, he tried to move. "Charlie – "

"Lie still, Jed," Abbey was ordering.

"Can't – breathe – " he gasped, lungs fighting in a futile attempt to suck in more air.

"Jed!" she called, her hand cradling her husband's cheek. His breathing grew shallow and quick; his lips took on a bluish tint.

That wasn't good. That wasn't good at all.

"Pneumothroax!" she snapped, spreading the open shirt to get at his chest. "Damn it!"

"What – "

"His lung is punctured," she explained, hands running over his abdomen. "I don't know how the hell many ribs are broken now. I don't want to move him. Damned fool should have – " She couldn't stop the sob that jerked her, but she didn't removed her hands. "I need a tube."

"A what?"

"A chest tube. I've got to do a thoracostomy now to get the air from around the outside of his lung – so it can re-expand."

"What can – what can I do?"

"The medical room. It's right – "

"I know where it is," he said quickly.

"It's set up to run like an OR. There's emergency equipment somewhere – "

"What does it look like?"

Damn it, they didn't have time for this. A bomb was about to blow them all to Kingdom Come. But just in case it didn't, he had to save the President's life. He had to save it now. How could he find it soon enough? Jed was suffocating right before their eyes.

"I need to know what it looks – "

"I know."

They stopped at the voice, the voice that had so recently been one of death, the voice that still sounded like their final toll. Leo glared at the doctor, who sat, hands bound behind him, gun at his head.

"Shut up," Toby warned softly, looking as if he was on the verge of shutting him up permanently. "Shut the hell up."

"I know what she needs. I can get it faster than you."

What was he doing? He had just tried to kill them all – could still succeed in that – and he was offering to help?

"Why the hell – " Leo began.

But Abbey had finally turned away from her husband, only for a moment, to look into their enemy's eyes. "Let him," she decided.

"Abbey – "

"Let him. It's Jed's best chance."

It's Jed's only chance was what she didn't say. Leo heard it anyway.

Leo looked at Ron, sagging against a bulkhead. The agent's eyes were cold, but he nodded carefully. The remaining two agents flanked the Chinese doctor, who shuffled past his would-be victim and walked into the corridor.

As he mentally willed the President to keep breathing, his mind tried to count how long it had been since Charlie left. Was it really a bomb? Had the American forces who must have been waiting outside the plane defused it? Had they –

The concussion of the blast threw him against the bulkhead, slammed his head into the wall. He felt the prick of shards from shattering windows, heard the rip of metal, watched helplessly as Abbey lost her grip on her husband and tumbled hard into the ruined desk. Pieces of insulation sliced through the air above them, whirling with the roar of the incoming atmosphere. The hull was breached, that much was certain. How bad, Leo couldn't tell yet. Couldn't really see, yet, past the carnage. He watched in horror as the President's body skidded against an upturned chair, his legs and arms flung around like a Raggedy Ann doll.

Then it was quiet, and one-by-one, they came to the realization that they were all alive. Leo took note of everyone. Ron lay next to him, uncharacteristically moaning. Leo knew he was out. Hu Jintao rose on his hands and knees, shaking his head of the glass pieces. Abbey groaned and pushed up.

But the President didn't move. Not at all.

When he saw that the plane was still in tact, except for a few rips in the fuselage, he realized that Charlie must have gotten far enough away from the plane to save it. What an incredible act of courage and love.

"Dear God!" Leo groaned, crawling to his knees. He had no time to spare in grief for the brave young man who had sacrificed himself for all of them. He would have to grieve later, and hope he wouldn't be grieving two people.

Scrambling over to the President, Abbey ignored her own collection of cuts and cleaned him off as best she could. "The tube!" she spat. "Where the hell is – "

"Here." The doctor returned, his dark hair white with dust and debris, barely able to walk for the agents sandwiching him. He had not been allowed to carry the life-saving chest tube, but at his nod, an agent extended his hands toward the First Lady, scalpel in one and tube in the other.

"Hold him," she directed to anyone around them. Leo and two other agents knelt beside their leader, turning him to his back and bracing his torso and legs.

Leo stared at the First Lady in doctor mode. Many times Jed had teased about how much of a turn on it was for him to call his wife "Doctor Bartlet." Now Leo saw her, focused, efficient, no-nonsense. She was amazing.

And in different circumstances, he could see where it would be a turn on. But now it was just decisive. She was in charge. No questions.

As she took the scalpel in her hand, he had the terrifying comprehension that she was going to open him up right there, no anesthesia, no pain killer, no sterile prep.

The scalpel sliced smoothly through the skin. Jed jerked in his semi-conscious state. Leo swallowed the bile that suddenly threatened his throat. Blood welled from the incision, but it was only a few seconds before Abbey had taken the tube and thrust it into his body.

The President's face was gray under the blood, his breathing almost undetectable. He couldn't be dying. He absolutely could not.

Work! Leo commanded the small device. "Work, damn you," he muttered.

Work.

Please, dear God, work.


	13. Born to Rule the Storm

**Bounds of Freedom**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

**Chapter Thirteen – Born to Rule the Storm**

POV: Nancy McNally

Spoilers: "ITSOTG;" "Manchester"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: These characters are not my creation.

**The White House**

**3:30 p.m., Wednesday**

**EDT**

Nancy McNally had waited in the Sit Room uncounted times in the six-plus years she had served Josiah Bartlet as National Security Advisor. Each of those times involved a critical situation, the results of which relied on decisions made right there – decisions in which she played a major role – decisions finally determined by the President of the United States as he sat, absorbing their facts, their opinions, at the head of the table.

But not that afternoon.

Oh, the situation was critical, the results still relied on decisions she would help to make. But that afternoon something was missing – and that something made all the difference in the world. That afternoon, someone else sat at the head of the table, in that chair – in HIS chair. It was an unspoken agreement. Only one man sat in that chair. Even Hoynes had recognized protocol in those frantic hours after Rosslyn and had taken his place to the side.

But not Bingo Bob, Nancy mused with an ill-concealed glare toward the Vice-President. No, the unabashedly ambitious Russell seemed only too anxious to claim his spot in the absence of their true leader. He had not been able to overcome the blatant scowls directed toward him in the Oval Office, keeping him out from behind the Resolute Desk, but there in the Sit Room, with the chaos of the moment, he had eased into the place of honor – or of responsibility. He didn't deserve the former; he hadn't earned the latter.

She glanced across the table at Berryhill and Hutchinson. As irritatingly superior as the Secretary of Defense could be, she would take him any day over Bingo Beanhead. The expressions on both of their faces told her they had the same thoughts about the second-in-command. No one really spoke. Several in the room passed written information, but most of them simply concentrated on filtering through the conversations coming over their audio feed from halfway around the world.

Special Forces had deployed some ten minutes before, sealing off the area and the plane and blocking any visual transmissions for fear the terrorists might use them to discover that the good guys were finally on the move.

"Anything?" Berryhill asked after another minute, unable to stand having so little information.

General Alexander shook his head. Nancy was glad the Secretary of State had asked before she could.

Amid the underlying radio babble, she could not stop herself from pondering the worst-case scenario. After all, it was her job. The President relied on her to provide him with every possibility, with every option. She wondered if he had ever imagined he might one day be relying on her for his own survival. Suppose he was – dear God, she didn't even want to consider this – but what if he was already dead? What if the First Lady was? Of course, no doubt existed in her mind that if Abbey Bartlet had been killed, the President's body would be lying right there with hers.

And where would they be then?

She had been with him since the beginning of his administration. In those early days, his relative inexperience in foreign affairs had been painfully obvious, no more so than to the President himself, but the Sit Room sessions became learning opportunities for him. He demanded that they teach him, that they not patronize him in any way. Fitz had been the first to recognize the potential for greatness in their new President. Despite being green, despite having impatience with the frequently frustrating mazes of international diplomacy, Jed Bartlet showed that he had what it took. They all realized that quickly. And the result was a man who had become a master at foreign policy, an artist at diplomacy.

Our boy.

She had referred to him in that way on more than one occasion – not to his face, of course, and always with nothing less than glowing admiration and respect. In her many years of public service, she had never met anyone quite like Josiah Bartlet, had never encountered someone with such a richness of intellect, warmth, humor, compassion, idealism, nobility. A phrase from a poem she had read long ago flickered through her thoughts:

"Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud though childlike form."

"Beautiful and bright. Born to rule the storm." That seemed appropriate for Jed Bartlet. He was flawed, of course, as all great men were. But his flaws came from his own deep sense of duty, of the need to leave a mark, to do something in the world. And if he sometimes pushed too hard in that direction, it was because he knew his time was limited and he couldn't pass up any opportunities. They all knew that he was their best chance to come along in a long time. She darted a glance toward Russell again. And maybe their only chance for a long time to come.

And she was damned if she would stand by and let terrorists take that away from them. No one messed with their boy.

"Explosions! We have explosions!"

The voice cut across all of the other chatter, slicing into the room with the precision of a keen knife.

McNally's head jerked up, her eyes caught those of Alexander, who turned immediately to his aides for details. Russell stood, eyes wide, mouth open. Berryhill and Hutchinson exchanged anxious glances. Explosions were not good. Definitely not good. A bomb on an airplane, even one sitting on the ground already, would tear the relatively fragile frame to bits – and those within that frame didn't stand a chance.

"Where?" Alexander snapped into the cell phone. "Outside? You're sure?"

Outside? Please God, let it be outside the plane.

"Damage?" He frowned. "How big a breach?"

Damn. A breach of the fuselage, she assumed. Must have been close. Had to have been the terrorists. The special forces carried only rifles, knowing the danger of explosives in such a tight area.

She yearned to ask about casualties, itched to jerk the phone away from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and listen for herself to the report. But she clenched her fists and waited, just like the rest of them. Just like the Vice-President, even.

"From inside?"

What from inside? God, she hated not knowing what was going on.

"Take it."

It didn't really occur to any of them until much later that Alexander's order to take the plane at that moment had not been cleared by the Vice-President. Not that it would have really mattered. Nancy doubted the VP would have contradicted the Chairman's advice. She doubted Bobblehead Bob would have even understood their choices.

So the word was given by General Alexander, witnessed by the Secretaries of State and Defense, the National Security Advisor, and the Vice-President of the United States. She prayed it was the right word.

Minutes passed. Then more. Over the link they heard the sporadic burst of gunfire, the hoarse calls of English and Chinese, the occasional grunt of pain or frustration or just plain effort. No word. No new information. No relief from their fear, from their anxiety. Alexander kept trying, with only feeble success, to get someone on the line, to garner any tidbit of information for the high ranking people who could now only wait for the grunts to do their jobs.

"Well?" It was the Vice-President this time. He had finally gotten out of Jed Bartlet's chair and stood, hands in pockets, next to Alexander. Nancy squelched the urge to stand in his way if he tried to go back.

"Don't you have anything?" Russell prodded. "I've got to give the press something pretty soon or they're gonna think we're not doing anything."

The press? If the son of a bitch was going to make a campaign speech out of this –

The general swung around, not bothering to mask the piercing glare of anger. "If you give me a minute, Mister VICE-President – '

Nancy barely kept herself from cheering at the pointed slap down from the chairman. He might have eyes on the Oval Office, but Russell wasn't there yet. And Nancy figured he had better not count on any votes from anyone in that room.

"Patch it over," Alexander ordered. They held their breaths as the connection was made to the intercom phone.

A breathless, but calm voice broke through the rest of the noises. " – under control. Have secured the area. Three combatants in custody. Eight taken out. I repeat, Angel is secure."

Thank God. Oh, thank God.

But the hard question was to come. Alexander hesitated only a second before asking it.

"Do you have Eagle and Regina?"

"Regina's good. Also have Lion and Batman."

So Abbey was alive. And Leo and Toby Zeigler, but what about –

"Eagle?" the general prompted.

A hesitation. Not encouraging. "Eagle's down. I think he's – I can't tell if he's – his condition is uncertain, sir."

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Best guess," came the curt order.

"I really don't know, sir." The soldier forgot about codes in the emotion of the moment. "The First Lady is – is working on him."

The First Lady? Well, at least there was something to work on –

"Where's the flight surgeon?"

"Dead, sir."

Dear God. The President was injured – who knew how badly – and the only person who could help him at the moment was his wife? What kind of pressure was that on Abbey? How could she manage even to think in such a situation?

"We've got medics in there now – and – and – "

"What is it, son?"

The voice on the other end cracked, as if he really didn't want to report his next bit of information. "One of the terrorists is helping, too, General."

What? What the hell was he saying?

"Say again!" Alexander demanded.

"One of the terrorists is apparently a doctor, sir. He's helping the First Lady – at her insistence."

The group in the Sit Room stared at each other for a moment, unsure about what to make of this revelation. After a beat or two, Nancy took a breath and nodded to Alexander. If Abbey Bartlet trusted this guy with her husband – well, she just hoped to hell the First Lady knew what she was doing.

The general nodded back. "Okay, son. I copy that."

As he stayed on the line, Nancy spun around to Berryhill. "All right. Obviously that plane can't go anywhere. We need access to the nearest hospital, assuming it actually has an emergency room. No complications. The Chinese have to be with us on this."

The Secretary of State smiled faintly. "I don't think that will be a problem," he assured her. "Their foreign minister is falling all over himself apologizing and trying to explain this has nothing to do with the Chinese government. And since his own president is one of the hostages – "

Hu Jintao. She had forgotten about him. "What about – "

"Alive," Alexander supplied, understanding where she was going. "And apparently unharmed."

It took another twenty minutes to re-establish visual feeds, but when they did, Nancy cringed at the raw damage to the airplane. A ragged hole had blown through the starboard side of the fuselage, blasting up from the ground, ripping the skin and tearing through the cargo hold. Smaller scarring and tears scratched upward to the higher levels, right where – right where the President's office lay. Thank God, at least, it had not detonated inside. This would be a recovery mission instead of a rescue mission.

The amazing scene now played out before them: the few surviving terrorists hooded and hustled from the plane by American and Chinese forces, the crowd of military rescue vehicles massed at the foot of the stairs, the bustling throng of medics in and out of the open door.

The latest word had the President alive, but critical. Reporters liberated from the plane had already contacted their stations and papers with a sensational story about how Bartlet had thrown himself onto a terrorist to try to wrestle away a briefcase that apparently contained the bomb that later damaged the plane. Word had it that this briefcase was subsequently whisked off the plane at the last minute by none other than the President's bodyman, Charlie Young. No information was available on his fate, but the force of the blast made speculation mute. Nancy closed her eyes and breathed a prayer for the young man. What a tragedy. But she knew the he would have wanted it that way. She knew he still felt responsible for the President being shot at Rosslyn. Maybe this was his way of repaying him. As they waited further word on his boss, she hoped his sacrifice had not been in vain.

"There they are!"

The call drew them even closer to the screen, the promise of the sight they had all anticipated, yearned for, even. In the breaking dawn emerged the President of the United States, looking much different than when he had entered more than five hours before: strapped to a backboard, bare-chested except for the extensive bandaging across his shoulder and torso, IV held high by a secret service man. Nancy grimaced against the pain that twisted in her gut at seeing him so battered.

The glee and relief they had felt with the capture of the terrorists now fled with the stark reality of what had been done to their President – to their friend. From what she could see, his face was bloodied and bruised, his eyes closed. The expressions on the surrounding medical personnel and staff were tight, solemn.

Abbey Bartlet followed directly behind, her right hand occasionally brushing the hair back from his forehead, her mouth set in a grim line, her eyes stunned, her own face not spared its share of cuts and abrasions. The NSA was not normally an emotional person, but she couldn't stop the sob that caught at the back of her throat. Dear God. This did not look good. Not at all.

Another stretcher appeared next, this one carrying the injured body of Ron Butterfield. Nancy was not surprised. No one would get to the President without having to take out this man. Leo McGarry and Toby Zeigler stumbled out behind, their faces white. As horrible as those hours had been for her, she could not imagine what those on the plane had been through.

"Where are they going?" she asked Berryhill without turning from the monitor.

"Xian Gaoxin Hospital. It's new. Opened a couple of years ago. Supposed to be highly advanced."

"Compared to what?"

He shrugged. They really didn't have much choice.

"He's not in any shape to fly to one of our bases?" She knew the answer, but couldn't not ask.

Grimly, Berryhill shook his head. "Several busted ribs. Broken shoulder. Collapsed lung. Concussion. At least that what word I'm getting. I have no idea how accurate the information is."

There was something else to consider with this President. "What about the – "

Again, he shook his head. "No idea, but if anything would trigger an – an episode – "

"Yeah."

She felt her teeth grit in fury as the stretcher bearers carried their precious burden as quickly down the steps as they dared. What the hell had those bastards done to him? Who the hell did they think they were that they could attack the President of the United States? That they could attack Josiah Bartlet?

Suddenly, the adrenaline that had surged through her veins for the past five hours left in a whoosh of exhaustion, and she sank into a chair. It was over, she realized. The interminable hours that seemed to stretch into days. The uncertainty. The terror. It was over.

But no, it wasn't, not quite yet. Not for one of them. Perhaps not for any of them. Because they still waited.

They waited on one man. They waited on his physical strength. They waited on his emotional strength. They waited on his spiritual strength. And they waited on his stubbornness, his willpower, and that marvelous flaw – that sense of duty – that could pull him from death's very door to fulfill his destiny.

The world waited.

China waited.

His cabinet waited.

His best friend waited.

His wife waited.

All of their hopes waited with the beautiful and bright man who, at the moment, was being rushed through the streets of Xian to receive help from the very health system he had come to reform.

They were waiting for him, if he could just wait for them.

"The boy stood on the burning deck,

Whence all but he had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck,

Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud though childlike form."

Felicia Dorothea Hamans

(1783-1835)

Casabianca


	14. Mark Twain

This is the penultimate chapter of this story. I started this before the season began, even before there was a China storyline, so I figure I can make up my own plot for what happens at the China Summit. I'm sure you have figured out that C.J. is still press secretary and Leo is still chief of staff. (And if it were up to me, I would have Jed Bartlet be President on into infinity.) So there.

I also figure that I have dangled everyone above the precipice long enough. Time for a little resolution, at least a partial one.

**Bounds of Freedom**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

**Chapter Fourteen – Mark Twain**

POV: Jed

Spoilers: No big ones for anything

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: All the major characters were created by Aaron Sorkin. I made up a few minor characters. Wish it was the other way around.

**Location and Time Unknown**

"Mister President!"

"Ten more minutes, Charlie," he muttered. Let him sleep ten more minutes.

"Mister President!"

Damn, the boy was persistent, but wasn't that what he paid him for? Okay, time to get up. He would just ease out of bed –

Oh, shit! Okay, on second thought, no easing out of bed.

The burst of pain caught him cold and slammed through every nerve in his body. Something was definitely not right here. If someone would just give him a hand and move the anvil off his chest – and while they were at it, they might take a moment to pull the screwdriver out of his temple. Yeah, that would probably help.

Maybe Charlie would be so kind –

But something tugged at his brain when the pain eased enough to let more coherent thoughts through. Something disturbing about Charlie. Something he didn't think he wanted to know.

"You think he can hear us?"

Yes, I can hear you fine. I'm not deaf.

Blind maybe, he mused, realizing that everything in front of him was black. What would cause that? The MS for sure. It was something – one of many things – he had dreaded about the disease. Had that happened? Had he suddenly lost his vision? It didn't seem likely. He didn't remember having any warnings about it, any blurriness or pain. But there wasn't always a warning, was there?

"Jed? Can you open your eyes?"

Ah. Leave it to Abbey, the doctor. Open your eyes. Why hadn't he thought of that?

Gritting his teeth, he peeled open one eye, closing it again instantly as the harsh glare flashed straight to the center of his brain. Mistake. Maybe that's why he hadn't thought of it.

"Josiah?"

Josiah? Was she mad at him for something? Or was she just trying to reach into his deeper consciousness, the one that reminded him he was the President and he had duties –

Duties. He had duties, didn't he? What the hell were they? He had been doing something important, he thought. Well, that was brilliant. He was the damn President of the United States. Every damn thing he did was important. But this – it was something really big. Something he should remember, but his head throbbed and his body ached, and he couldn't grab onto that elusive bit of information that would bring him back to awareness.

Another voice floated into his head, one he didn't recognize, one with a faint oriental accent. "The medication will impair his ability to reason, right now. And the concussion certainly does not help."

Concussion? Okay, that explained some of it. What about the tire iron across his ribs? What the hell had he done to himself? Maybe that's why Abbey was mad. Maybe he had done something really stupid and gotten himself banged up. As much as she needled him about taking care of himself, that would really piss her off.

If he could just ask Charlie to sneak him an aspirin or two –

The uneasy feeling that had nudged him earlier returned. Charlie. Something about Charlie. Something that wasn't good.

"Nancy McNally called a few minutes ago," Leo was saying to someone. To him, maybe? He tried to answer, but couldn't quite form the words.

Abbey answered, instead. "She able to rein in Russell?"

Oh God. Russell. If the President of the United States was out with a concussion, or even with an MS attack, that idiot was in charge. Please say Nancy was reining him in. Please say it.

The humor bled through Leo's tone easily. "She's had help. C.J. told me Berryhill and Hutchinson haven't even let him go to the head on his own."

Good. Good. That was last thing they needed – for Bingo Bob to be making policy decisions, or any decisions for that matter. He would have made an absolute mess of China –

China. Yes! That was it. Through the medication, through the concussion, the synapses finally snapped together again.

China.

Terrorists.

Bomb. That was it. That was the bad feeling.

"Charlie!" He thought he screamed the name, but it must have bubbled out as only a whisper, since Abbey's voice came to him from a closer distance, along with the sensation that someone was holding his hand.

"Jed? Sweetheart?"

Good. Sweetheart. Not mad, then. He braved the light again, squinting with both eyes, trying to see past the constant pounding in his head.

"Abbey?" he managed weakly, as he made out the silhouette of her wavy hair.

The relief that warmed her voice made the effort worthwhile. "Welcome back." A gentle squeeze told him who had been holding his hand.

Had he been somewhere? Were they still in China? Were they still on Air Force One? No. There was a bomb. They couldn't still be on Air Force One, could they?

Steeling himself, he started to push up, but the iron rod of agony that thrust through his ribs dissuaded him – as well as at least three sets of hands holding him down.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked.

"Bomb?" he choked, needing to know, desperate to know. If they were still on Air Force One they must have gotten the bomb diffused – or off.

Then another thought occurred to him – a strange, twisting thought that weaved its way through his swimming head. Maybe there never was a bomb. Maybe he was right earlier. Maybe he had hallucinated this terrible scenario in the throes of an MS episode. That could explain why he was flat on his back. Dear God, had he collapsed in front of Hu Jintao? Or worse – in front of the entire world on international television?

Horror flashed through him at the possibility, and he bent forward to rise again, to get some answers into his muddled brain.

"Josiah Bartlet! Holy Mother, you are the most stubborn man – "

Yeah, she was mad. Even without his wife's scolding, though, he would have abandoned his impulsive move, realizing now that the very real burn across his ribs and the throbbing at his temple, and a new ache in his shoulder gave evidence that he hadn't imagined it at all. Gasping, he dropped back onto the bed, his fall broken once more by gentle hands that helped ease him down.

"You know you scared the hell out of us already," another voice scolded. "No need to keep doing it."

He barely turned his head toward the sound. Man, Leo looked terrified. Thank God he was okay.

"We thought – we thought you were dead." The pain in that growling voice was clear.

"The world thought you were dead," Abbey added, and even though her tone was light, he heard the underlying strain. "Fox News announced it before our people could issue a statement on your condition."

Fox News? Ah, that was almost worth almost dying. He wondered if they were able to squelch their glee long enough to make the report. Served them right for being so eager. C.J. would have a field day with that.

He would have chuckled if it didn't hurt so much. "Mark Twain," he mumbled.

The reference was enough. His best friend and wife both smiled, albeit weakly. "Yeah."

But there was something he had to know, something they couldn't protect him from any longer. "Charlie – " he asked again, an even more poignant ache swelling in his heart with the memory of what the young man had done. It had been real, and that meant that Charlie had –

He caught the exchange of glances between Leo and Abbey, the hesitation in their movement, and the ache sharpened to a stab. No! Please, no! Not Charlie. Not – his son.

But the chief of staff didn't offer any comforting words; his wife didn't lay her hand against his face in consolation. Instead, they both stepped back from his vision, making way for a new body to fill the space. A familiar face. A face he didn't think he would see again.

A renewed burst of energy captured him, and he reached with the arm that didn't hurt to grasp the shoulder of his bodyman – of his son. "Charlie!"

The grin he received was bright, pleased, and just as emotional as his own. "Sir."

Oh God. Keep it together. He clenched his teeth until his head hurt again. "I thought – I thought you were – "

"You and me both, sir."

Then he noticed the crutches under the young man's arms, the dark stitches across his brow. "Charlie?"

"I'm fine, sir. A few cuts and bruises."

"A fractured tibia," Abbey added from behind him.

"What – "

Leo stepped in again. "Mister Young, here, took it upon himself to remove the explosive from the airplane."

"But – it blew up – I remember – " It was his last memory from the plane, the fear of knowing what Charlie had done, the terrible ripping of the outer skin – and then he remembered nothing until he woke up – wherever he was.

"He got halfway down the steps and threw it as hard as he could," Leo explained.

"The throw put me off balance and I fell the rest of the way down the stairs," Charlie added sheepishly. "That's how I broke my leg."

"But, apparently, the walls of the steps protected him enough from the blast."

Jed Bartlet gritted his teeth to keep the tears from pushing forward, from embarrassing himself. "What did I – tell you about – makin' sacrifices, son?"

Charlie shook his head, his eyes gleaming with something that looked, to Jed, a little too much like hero worship. "Due respect, sir, but I think that's the pot calling the kettle black," he accused.

Touche. "Yeah, well." It was the best he could manage.

But he couldn't hold onto the moment, couldn't keep the joy before him against the black tunnel that narrowed his vision and drew him back down into the darkness. He heard his wife tell him it was okay to go back to sleep. Nice to have permission. Besides, he wasn't going anywhere far away. He'd be back in a little while. He'd always come back to her – one way or another. It was has last coherent thought for some time.

**Later**

**Exact Location and Time Still Unknown**

The next intelligible thought Jed Bartlet had was that the human body was certainly capable of producing an amazing amount of pain. He had come to that conclusion after attempting to fill his lungs with a deep, satisfying breath. That attempt had been abruptly abandoned with the streak of fire that tore through his ribs. Yes, an amazing amount of pain.

"Shit."

"Yeah, he's awake."

"Abbey?" He opened his eyes. This time it was easier.

"You finally decide to join us, Jethro?" she asked, the sharp words softened by her gentle tone.

He stared at her for a moment, took in the disheveled hair, the haggard circles under her eyes, the complete lack of make up. God, she was beautiful. Not that he ever forgot, but the realization sometimes took his breath – and breath was something he apparently didn't have in abundance at the moment.

She leaned over and placed a kiss on his forehead, out of habit brushing the skin with her hand, even though she wore no lipstick to leave her mark. "How ya' doin'?"

"Been better," he admitted, letting his gaze slip past her to rest on the others in the room.

Leo stood there, smiling goofily at him, his own appearance uncharacteristically rumpled. Toby peeked over Leo's left shoulder, his face still hanging and solemn, but his eyes betraying him with their bright spark. A slight man leaned in next to Abbey, his dark hair and eyes identifying him as possibly being the oriental speaker of earlier – how much earlier? An hour? A day?

"Are we – still in China?" he asked, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible.

The slight man spoke. "You are at the Xian Gaoxin Hospital, Mister President," he offered. "I am Doctor Xiao Zenchuan. I am chief of thoracic surgery here."

"My wife's – a thoracic surgeon," he shared, thinking too late that it was probably a superfluous remark.

The doctor smiled, his eyes kind. "Yes, sir. I know. We have already had some enlightening conversations."

"About thoracic – surgery, right? Not about me." Fat chance.

A shrug. "Well, about both. Your thoracic surgery, in particular."

He should have known. Okay, time to figure out just what the hell was going on. "Abbey – "

She brushed his cheek, and the love in her eyes almost overwhelmed him. "You need to rest, Jed. There's time enough to – "

But there wasn't time. Not anymore. He struggled for an easy breath. Didn't find one. "Abigail – "

"You can do this later," she insisted firmly.

With effort, he summoned what little strength he had left. "Abigail Ann – "

A surprised scowl drew her brow down. He rarely resorted to her middle name. "My God, you are bossy."

Ah. He had her. "Now."

With an exasperated sigh, which wasn't so exasperated really, she nodded. "All right, Rambo, you asked for it. You have five fractured ribs, three broken completely through. One of them pieced your lung and collapsed it. It was necessary to do a thoracostomy to take the air out from around it and re-inflate it."

Well, he did ask. And that certainly explained the anvil. He winced at the flicker of pain that crossed her face. Something occurred to him. "Who did the – "

"I did it."

Oh hell. I'm sorry, Abbey. I'm so sorry.

He couldn't even imagine what that was like, couldn't envision what she must have gone through. If it had been Abbey that needed – well, he was pretty sure he would have been too frantic to do anything but beat the hell out of whoever had done that to her.

"Damn fool," she whispered, cupping his chin in her hand.

"But your fool?" he asked, tilting his head down to kiss her palm.

"My fool," she assured him, eyes bright. God, he loved her.

Then she cleared her throat, lowered her hand, and continued in a normal tone. "You also have a rather deep laceration above your temple – fourteen stitches – and a dislocated shoulder."

Ouch. Yes, he seemed to remember the blinding pain from a rather barbaric procedure to pop it back in place. All right. Screwdriver through the head was now explained, too.

"All in all, Mister President," the Chinese doctor offered, "you are a very fortunate man."

Depended on how you looked at it, he figured, bracing himself for another breath. "What about – "

Doctor Zenchuan squinted, but Abbey knew. "Not bad," she told him, catching his hand again in hers, as if she couldn't keep from touching him. "We've pumped you full of prednisone and amazingly there are only mild signs of an episode. If you follow orders and do what you're told – "

"Where's the – fun in that?" he asked, smiling at her. Thank God for small favors. "Still gotta – redeem myself from that – Inaugural record."

Her blush was his reward.

Leo shot them both a look that said he didn't know exactly what they were talking about, but he knew them well enough to guess at the general topic. "Mister President – "

"I'll be – good, Leo," he promised. Didn't have much choice anyway. It occurred to him then that he really had no idea what time it was – or what day for that matter. "How long have – I been out?"

The Chinese doctor answered. "You arrived at our facility approximately thirteen hours ago, Mister President. In that time you have had surgery to repair your ribs and your lung, as well as resetting your dislocated shoulder and stitching your head wound."

That all? "I thought – Abbey fixed my – shoulder." He looked to her for confirmation.

She grimaced. "The first time. The bomb blast threw you against the bulkhead and popped it out again. This time with much more ligament damage."

Great. An unpleasant sensation began to build in his chest, one that felt dangerously like a cough. No way that could be pleasant in his present condition. He swallowed and tried to suppress it. "So it's what – Thursday? Friday?"

"Thursday, sir," Leo supplied. "Six-thirty in the evening. Beijing time, anyway."

Almost twenty hours since they boarded the plane. How much had happened in that time? His brain spun with things that should have been done. The stock exchange. National security –

"How many others?" he asked abruptly as the thought came to him. The urge to cough grew stronger. He clamped down on it.

Leo sighed. That couldn't be good. "Five agents dead, Mister President. All but three of the terrorists were killed either by agents on the plane or by the special forces involved in the rescue."

Five agents. Please not – "Ron?"

"He's okay. Took one in the shoulder, but he's gonna be fine."

Thank God. Thank God.

Then the cough was there, forcing its way up through a tattered lung and beneath battered ribs. Weak as it was, it ripped across his torso as if it were tearing him in half. He gasped and coughed and groaned all at once, trying to sit to make the movement more productive. Instantly, doctors, nurses, a best friend, and a wife surrounded him.

Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!

Doctor Zenchuan held his shoulders as gently as he could. "Mister President, it's okay. You go ahead and cough. Your lungs need it. They need to clear of any fluids that are collecting. Pneumonia is very dangerous in your situation."

"I know it hurts, Babe," Abbey was adding. "You're going to have to do it, anyway. We were going to get you up later to start, but you've always have been precocious."

Funny. But not nearly as funny when Zenchuan popped him in the upper back with his fist.

"What – the – "

"To break loose the congestion," he explained. "I know it is unpleasant."

Unpleasant? "You Chinese – have a way – with understatement," he noted, when he could speak.

"Nah," Zenchuan admitted. "I learned that at Johns Hopkins during my residency."

Johns Hopkins? Well, that explained quite a bit.

They helped him lie back, but made it clear that this would be a regular thing until they felt he was free of danger from pneumonia.

"At least I – have something to – look forward to," he mused, hoping his gift for sarcasm got through to all of them.

"You sleep now, Jed," Abbey ordered, laying her hand on his forehead. "The rest will keep."

The rest? What did she mean the rest? But they must have slipped him something through the IV because his eyes wouldn't stay open and his body started to sink down into the mattress, to melt beneath him. Just a few minutes. Just a few –

**Xian Gaoxin Hospital**

**Beijing**

**9:05 a.m. Friday**

**Beijing Time**

"See? You did well. Just lie back."

Did well? He had just coughed his lungs up, had probably pulled all of his stitches out, and had most certainly re-broken every single rib. He did well?

Abbey must have read his expression. He hoped so. "I know it hurts, Jed, but the coughing is very important."

"The back – pounding, too. That's – necessary?"

"Yes." Her tone was the one she used on the girls when they balked at orders. No balking here.

"I think you just – like beating up on me – and saying it's a medical – procedure."

But she just smiled. "I've done other things to you we called 'medical procedures,'" she reminded with just enough of a leer on her face to let him know what things she was talking about.

Oh boy. If he could just breathe, he would jump her right there. "You make – house calls, Doctor Bartlet?" he leered back.

"I seem to remember several house calls on the kitchen table at Manchester – "

"Okay, I'm gonna stop you right there." The amused, but mildly panicked, voice came from the door.

Jed looked around his wife to see the crimson face of his best friend. "Leo! Come in and – save me from this – sadist."

"Too much information, sir," he assured. "And I've eaten on that table before, please remember."

"Me, too," Jed returned, and was delighted to see Abbey's face flush to match Leo's.

"Oh, God," she groaned. "Do something with him, quick," she begged.

"How about a little television?" Leo offered, only too eager to leave their heated banter to them. He clicked the switch on the new set they had brought in just for the President. Jed wondered if anyone else in the hospital had such an accommodation.

"Something on – we need to see?" he asked. Please don't let it be Buffoon Bob's press conference.

Leo's only answer was to surf until he found CNN International. A familiar face filled the screen. Jed smiled. C.J. looked great, as usual.

They had joined the press briefing at the beginning. C.J. was wrapping up a quick report on the President's condition, noting that he was fully conscious and recovering as expected from his injuries, also adding that he was grateful to the Chinese doctors and nurses at Xian Gaoxin Hospital for their skill and care.

"Nice touch," Jed said.

Leo shrugged. "I figured you were grateful."

"C.J.!" The first question came from _The Washington Post_ correspondent. Perfect! Jed was already grinning.

"Mark."

"C.J., what is the White House's response to _Fox News'_ premature declaration of the President's death?"

The press secretary cocked her head, as she did when she had them in her hand, and smiled. "Mark, you know, the President himself gave me the perfect answer when he found out about their little – faux pas."

"And that was?"

"You ever read Mark Twain?"

Most of the reporters there cracked a smile. A few new ones frowned in puzzlement. C.J. leaned on the podium in companionable informality and clued them in.

"In 1896, when it was reported that Mark Twain had died, someone contacted his family for a comment, and to his understandable surprise, Twain himself supplied the quote: 'Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.'"

She straightened now and looked out at her audience, jaw firm, eyes sharp. "President Bartlet is alive and relatively well and recovering in Xian. He is being briefed daily on the various issues he always deals with. As soon as he is able, he will return to the United States to continue his recovery. We are anticipating that return will be within the week."

The rest of the questions, predictably, included speculation that there would be complications from the MS, but C.J. was honestly able to put their fears to rest – this time, anyway, Jed thought. This time.

"Well, that was fun," Leo decided, clicking off the television. "I know C.J. was looking forward to it. Fox has already taken quite a beating from its own industry. Nice to have the other guys on the ropes for once."

Something C.J. said stuck with the President, though. "So, when do I get – out of here and back home?" he asked Abbey. "C.J. said within – the week. I feel fine."

Abbey raised a brow.

"Okay. I feel better, anyway. When – can we go back?"

There was that exchange again, that look that passed between two people who loved him, who would protect him, who would apparently keep him there longer than he wanted to be.

"Uh, first, Mister President," Leo started, "there's the matter of the plane itself."

Good point. He had forgotten about that. The plane with the hole in the fuselage. Probably not quite ready for flight just yet. "What about the other – "

"Yeah. 29000 is on its way. Should be here this evening."

Okay. Now they were in business. "Great. We head out – tonight, then?"

"No," Abbey said.

"What do you – mean, no? I've gotta get – back to – "

"Jed, you've had a collapsed lung. It is inadvisable to fly after suffering that particular injury."

"What do you mean? How am I – supposed to get home – if I don't fly?" That was ridiculous. They could be careful, right? It had something to do with pressure, probably. Maybe they could increase the cabin pressure, or decrease it. Whatever they needed to do.

"Abbey, I'm not – staying here. I have a country – to run – "

"You can't go home, yet," she insisted. "It's not medically sound."

He felt the anger flush through him. She was telling him he had to stay in China? Was she crazy?

He was in too much pain to give diplomacy a shot. The impatience bled through every word. "There is no way – I am staying – "

But he wasn't the only one mad. His wife's face reddened, as well, and she stepped toward him, tears of anger – of fear, maybe – shimmering in her eyes. "Look, Jackass, do you realize how close you came to dying? Do you know how many people worked to save your life – including one of the terrorists who almost killed you in the first place? Do you have any idea how terrifying it was to cut you open right there on the floor of that cabin and stick a tube into your chest so you wouldn't die?"

She was trembling now, the tears running freely down her face. His felt his own slide from his eyes, and then she was in his arms, and he forgot about going home, ignored the pain the weight of her body caused. He needed her and she needed him, and he wasn't about to screw that up any more than he already had.

"I'm sorry, Abbey. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry," he murmured over and over into her hair.

When they both were able to regain a little control, she pulled back. "Damn you, Josiah Bartlet. If you had died on that plane, I would never have forgiven you."

He smiled. "I don't doubt it. Thank you for not letting me."

Her kiss was soft, tender, but so full of love that it was almost painful. She held his face in her hands, let her lips taste his as if she had been afraid she never would again. He realized that was exactly what she had feared. When the kiss ended, they were both startled by an uneasy throat clearing at the door.

Abbey slid off the bed so they both could greet the intruder. To Jed's surprise, Hu Jintao stood, dark eyes down in deference to their blatant display of affection. Taboo in Chinese custom. Well, he didn't give a damn anymore.

"I apologize, Mister President," he offered, raising his head. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned to Abbey. "And to you, Doctor Bartlet."

The First Lady of the United States stared at him for a moment, her jaw slack. Her husband had about the same expression. "Ah, thank you, Mister President," she finally returned.

The Chinese leader moved forward. "How are you feeling, Mister President?" he asked.

Still a little shaken from Abbey's kiss and from the unexpected deference to his wife, Jed took a breath, winced, and returned, "Better, thank you. How are you doing?"

"Considering that citizens of my own country tried to kill me and the President of the United States, I am doing all right."

"Considering," Jed agreed.

"I have come to make you an offer, Mister President," he said, without further small talk.

"An offer? What kind – of offer?"

"I want to offer you accommodations at my palace for as long as you may need them."

Another stunning announcement. Jed turned to give Abbey a startled glance, but she merely smiled back knowingly. He suddenly remembered her words yesterday just before he fell asleep.

_The rest will keep. _ Was this the rest?

Not exactly sure what the motive was – except guilt, maybe – he hesitated. "Well, that is certainly – generous, Mister President, but – "

"It is the least I can do. The physicians at this facility inform me that it is unwise to travel by air too soon after undergoing what you have undergone. You will, of course, not want to stay here the entire time. My home is your home."

My palace is your palace.

After contemplating the offer for a minute, the President of the United States pursed his lips and said, "Well, since I have a little time to kill – ah, sorry bad choice of colloquialisms. Since I have some time, perhaps we could use it productively."

The suggestion was not very subtle. Hu Jintao watched his counterpart carefully, waiting almost a full minute before responding. "Perhaps, Mister President, we could revisit the points you brought up earlier this week."

"Points?" Was he hearing right? Was Hu Jintao offering –

"The points you made about healthcare, the environment, and – North Korea."

Now he knew his jaw was hanging open. The Chinese president had just offered to resume talks that had been dead and buried two days earlier. The Chinese president just reopened the summit.

For a moment, anyway, the pain that filled his chest was replaced by hope. Maybe he couldn't bring freedom to this land, but he just needed one opportunity to show those who would that there was a chance, a hope. Maybe this was the opportunity – in the midst of unthinkable terror and tragedy – this was the opportunity.

Tilting at windmills? Maybe. He had done it in the Middle East. With the cooperation of Hu Jintao, maybe China was ready for some tilting, for some hope. And maybe that hope lay in the words and actions of an idealistic Westerner who just happened to be President of the United States.

As he nodded at the Chinese president, Abbey moved to his side and took his hand, grinning. Yes, there was hope. There had to be hope.

How could he believe any differently?

"**The report of my death has been greatly exaggerated."**

**Mark Twain**

**1896**


	15. Yin and Yang

Okay. This is it: the last part. I have had a blast (so to speak) writing this, and hope that you have enjoyed reading it. Many thanks to those of you who give me feedback. It is always appreciated, and gives me inspiration to write more. I hope you can tell how much I love these characters, Jed in particular. I only wish that I could use telepathy to the show's writers to let them know how I want them to treat "our boy."

**Bounds of Freedom**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

**Chapter Fifteen – Yin and Yang**

POV: Various

Spoilers: "Pilot;" "The White House Pro-Am;" "ITSOTG;" "Two Cathedrals;" "NFS Thurmont;" "A Change is Gonna Come"

Rating: R

Disclaimer: I have created several characters for this story, none of which even come close to the rich ones that came from Aaron Sorkin's imagination. We are all indebted to him for giving us Jed, Abbey, Leo, C.J., Toby, Josh, Nancy McNally, and the rest of The West Wing personalities. I have enjoyed – and will continue to enjoy – watching them, reading about them, and writing about them.

"There are two forces in the universe, according to Chinese theory: yin is the passive, negative force, and yang the active, positive force. According to this theory, wise people will detect these forces in the seasons, in their food, and so on, and will regulate their lives accordingly."

_The New Dictionary of Cultural Literacy_, Third Edition, 2002

**The White House**

**8:25 p.m. Wednesday, EST**

**Four Months to the day after the "Xian Incident"**

**POV: C.J.**

The White House Protocol Office could not have orchestrated a better setting – bright sun, crisp air, azure sky, happy, cheering crowds: a press secretary's dream. And it certainly didn't hurt that this setting was the backdrop for the most significant diplomatic victory in sixty years – perhaps longer. A victory that would change the relationship between east and west. A victory that would set them on a course toward unparalleled human rights, prosperity, and peace. A victory that had been born in the womb of terror.

Who woulda thunk it?

Feet propped casually on her desk, C.J. Cregg took a slow pull on the Diet Dr. Pepper and peered more closely at the television screen.

"And here it is. The moment. The culmination of talks that began four months ago: President Bartlet and President Jintao shaking hands, both having signed this unprecedented agreement between the United States and the Peoples Republic of China." Despite his obvious attempt to remain objective, CNN's Aaron Brown could not mask his awe. He paused, blinked a couple of times and admitted, "Wow."

But like all good newsmen, after a beat or two of indulging his human reaction, he cleared his throat and assumed the non-accent prevalent in people of his profession. Throwing the spotlight to the woman who sat with him, he said, "Karen, some historians have suggested that we really can't comprehend the significance of this document, that only time will reveal how important it was at this particular juncture. True or maybe a little dramatic?"

Damn. Karen McIntyre. Why the hell did they have to choose Karen McIntyre?

C.J. shook her head as she let her feet slide from the desk and leaned her body forward to place herself just a tad closer to the screen. She supposed Karen was as good a choice as any, given her foreign affairs experience, but they surely couldn't expect any favors from her. Not for this administration. Not for this President.

Still, she couldn't do much about that now, so as her ears took in the discussion between Brown and McIntyre, their Far East "expert," about how the Xian Accords would play out in history, she set her eyes on the man who had orchestrated it. Not that she could do anything about HIM, either. That was for Abbey and his doctors to deal with.

The satellite feed that spread the historic moment across the globe revealed the colorful pomp of the ceremony, the flourish of the pens, the triumph in the smiles of the world leaders. But she was looking for something more subtle, something that only those closest to the man would notice.

His hand shakes were firm and smooth, his waves easy, with full arm rotation. Good. Not just for the PR effect, but for what it told her about his condition. After a moment, he turned and gave the First Lady a kiss, not too brief, but not so long that it became an issue. C.J. flinched at this public display, but shrugged fatalistically. She had reminded him of the Chinese opinion on public affection before _Air Force One_ – the backup plane – took off two days before. Little good it had done last time. It seemed to have even less effect this time.

"Uh oh."

She turned to look at her comrade-in-perusal, Josh Lyman, ready to tell him the kiss wasn't really that big of a deal until she saw the twinkle in his eye. The grin split is face, then, pressing those dimples deep into his skin.

He shrugged at her glare. "President blows ground-breaking treaty over face-sucking incident with First Lady."

"Ha ha."

"Oh, come on, Ceej. You can't tell me you think that little smooch will create an international incident. For Pete's sake, last time they were here, he felt her up right in the middle of the opera."

"What?" Thank God she hadn't heard about that. "Who told you?"

"Sources. Let's just say the musicians probably weren't the only ones singing that night."

It was a reflex really, the slap across his head.

"Hey!"

"Does it bother you to live vicariously through the lives of people who really are having sex?"

"I have sex!" he declared, a little too defensively.

"I'm talking about with another per – wait, look!" She brushed away his indignation by pointing toward the screen, where, instead of a disapproving scowl from Hu Jintao over the public lip-lock, her President received a smile and pat on the back.

The Chinese president even went so far as to speak at some length with Abigail Bartlet. She decided when the First Couple returned, she would offer to get drunk again with Abbey. There had to be a story behind that noticeable change in attitude. But then, maybe the story simply reflected the bond that was created by mutually repelling a terrorist attack.

Her gaze returned to the President as he stepped from the stage to speak with various Chinese dignitaries. He looked good, she determined, completing her perusal. His color was back, and he managed not to appear as if he needed to brace his ribs every time he turned, even though she suspected that's still what he felt like doing. And if his pace wasn't quite as swift, if his gait wasn't quite as easy, that was generously overlooked by a world that had watched the horror unfold on that airstrip four months before, a world that had seen him battered, bloodied, and bruised and was grateful that he was even alive. Fitness was relevant.

Still, he looked good. Damn good. C.J. blushed a bit and threw a sheepish glance toward Josh, who nodded at the screen.

"He looks good," he noted, and C.J. flinched. Had she said that out loud? But a second look told her he wasn't even paying attention to her. His entire focus lay on the screen, on the man everyone was watching so closely.

"Heard from the Veep recently?" she asked, clouding the question with as much nonchalance as she could manage. In truth, she hoped he had just dropped off the face of the earth – or that someone had thrown him.

"Will's trying to get mileage out of how well he ran the country when the President was 'incapacitated.'"

She turned to him, open-mouthed. "Oh dear God. How well he ran the country! If it weren't for Nancy McNally and Berryhill we would be at war with China right now. Russell didn't have a clue, not a damned clue."

"I was there, remember?"

Yeah, he was. They all were. Nancy, Berryhill, Hutchinson, Alexander. All trying to keep "His Accidency" from tripping over the laces until Jed Bartlet could step back into the shoes. It had not been an easy task, but they managed to prevent Buffoon Bob from selling the Treasury Building to Japan and handing over the entire supply of uranium to Lichtenstein.

A close call. She took another swig of Dr. Pepper and let her ears tune back in to the report.

" – what was accomplished during that week and a half that the President stayed with Hu Jintao at his palace," McIntyre was saying. "Certainly, we must assume that the majority of the agreements were forged in that time."

Brown raised a brow. "Given the President's injuries, you actually think he was able – "

"Aaron, you know I am a bipartisan critic and have lobbed my share of criticisms at this administration."

"Newflash," Josh noted, kicking back in the chair, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

McIntyre, former foreign advisor to George H. W. Bush, was certainly not a friend of the President's – or very many politicians on either side of The Hill anymore. She had seemed, in the past seven years, to take it upon herself to counter nearly every policy the Bartlet Administration set before Congress. Of all people to comment on this agreement –

The press secretary held her breath, anticipating a pointed question about whether or not the President had really been mentally and physically able to negotiate the agreement. If she would just read the damn document –

McIntyre's thin lips pressed together for a moment before she continued, as if emphasizing the reluctance of the speaker to say the words. "But I have to say that injured or not, Jed Bartlet has shown the world that he is indeed able. I don't know of any president in the past sixty years who could have accomplished such an incredible feat, given the still-unbelievable trauma he had to go through."

Josh suddenly dropped forward. "What the hell – "

"Is that admiration I hear, Karen," Brown accused good-naturedly, knowing her former attitude toward the Bartlet White House.

"Mea culpa," she admitted, with only a pinch of reluctance, "but I don't think I'm alone in the world, Aaron. At least not today."

"Son of a bitch!" Josh laughed. "Was that a compliment?"

Not a compliment, C.J. decided, a praise – coming from the lips of one of their most-acidic critics in Washington.

But they weren't finished. Pressing his guest, Brown asked, "Given his political accomplishments as well as his – well, his frankly pretty incredible physical actions that reports have described from the struggle with the terrorists on Air Force One – we have heard the word 'hero' ascribed to the President these past few months. Do you agree?"

McIntyre hesitated, wincing slightly. Her lips pursed, relaxed. Finally, she hedged, "Well, I don't know if I would go so far – " Then her eyes crinkled and her shoulders lifted in a shrug of surrender. With a half-laugh, she admitted, "Yeah. Yeah. I think maybe I would."

Josh grinned now and stood, bowing hi body in his familiar, goofy victory stance. "Son of a bitch!"

What had seemed like the end of the world four months before had turned into a personal, political, and humanitarian triumph for the President, and there wasn't one person on the earth who could or would dispute that. Even Karen McIntyre.

Josiah Bartlet was making history in Beijing. Hu Jintao was becoming a true reformist for China. And best of all – and this fact had given great glee to more than one member of the group that worked in the West Wing – Bingo Bob was back where he belonged: relegated to the ignominious obscurity of the vice-presidency – at least for now.

She looked back at the television in time to see the President and Hu Jintao raise joined hands in victory. Two different leaders. Two different philosophies. One common cause. Balance.

"Yin and yang," she murmured.

"Huh?"

"Yin and yang. Balance."

Josh dimpled. "I thought it was about sex."

Dear Lord. "Can you go five minutes without thinking about sex?"

He appeared to give it some thought. "No."

C.J. rolled her eyes. "It's about balance in the world. About give and take. About – "

"It's about sex," he insisted. "Men and women. The women are yin; the men are yang."

"Forget I said anything."

"No. You've got a good point. China and the U.S. Yin and yang." He paused. "But we get to be the yang."

"Josh?"

"Shut up?"

"Bingo."

But she was smiling anyway as the camera zoomed in on the President and Hu Jintao, her eyes lingering on her boss. He did look good. Damn good. Thank God.

**Steps of the Hall of Supreme Harmony**

**The Forbidden City**

**8:25 a.m., Thursday**

**Beijing Time**

**POV: Jed**

Hu Jintao's handshake was firm, his smile genuine. Jed Bartlet returned both in the same fashion. To capitalize on the magnificent vista behind them, with the distinguished oriental architecture of the Forbidden City, they had chosen to have the ceremony outside, and nature had been gracious. A cloudless sky stretched above them, made even brighter by the crisp autumn day. A moment of heaven that had been born from a moment of hell.

He turned to find his wife beaming at him, the pride and love in her eyes catching him unprepared so that he had to fight against the hot tears that rushed up. To avoid showing the world his emotions, he leaned in, knowing she saw, needing her to see, and let his lips press against hers in a soft, lingering kiss, remembering too late C.J.'s reminders about public displays of affection in the Orient.

Well, who the hell cared? The damn thing was signed already, wasn't it?

Grabbing that moment to regain his composure, he took the strength Abbey sent him through the kiss and spun back around, barely managing to suppress the automatic wince at the flash of pain his quick movement caused. Oh, he had made incredible progress from those first moments of almost unbearable agony in that Xian hospital; even his most conservative doctors had to admit that. Still, smashed ribs were smashed ribs, and four months later, he occasionally fought to keep from bracing a hand against his side when his body – perhaps illogically – sensed a threat. He especially avoided any move that would give the clue that the incision his wife had made to insert the life-saving chest tube still pained him. He saw the guilt in her eyes when she looked at the healing scar, and no amount of assurances he could give seemed to erase that guilt completely.

But today wasn't the day to linger on such thoughts. Today was a day of celebration, of joy, of history. Hard to believe it had begun on a day of horror.

"We have accomplished much," Hu Jintao declared over the applause, bringing Jed's thoughts back to the reason they were there.

"Indeed," the President agreed.

"A great day for both our nations."

"For the world," he amended.

The Chinese leader smiled. "Indeed."

After a few more waves to the crowd, Hu Jintao leaned a little closer and said, "You return to your country tomorrow. Tonight, I am sending a present to your suite in the residence. I hope you will find it enjoyable."

Jed kept the smile on his face, but let his eyes question. They had already exchanged official gifts. He told Hu Jintao as much.

"Ah," his colleague said, "but this one is not official." At Bartlet's puzzled frown, he leaned even closer until he was right at the President's ear. "Mister President, do you remember our discussion in your quarters during your recovery?"

Jed smiled more genuinely this time. "We had many discussions." They had, indeed. His thoughts flew back to that productive, and sometimes fuzzy, week.

**The Chinese Presidential Residence**

**10:15 a.m., Tuesday after the Xian Incident**

**Beijing Time**

It had not been easy, arguing from flat on his back, both figuratively and sometimes literally, but it was his only option if he wanted to argue at all during those first few days out of the hospital. He might as well have stayed. The Chinese leader had arranged for 24-hour care to be at his disposal. Well, he figured Abbey needed a break occasionally.

To his surprise, Hu Jintao was as good as his word about the talks, which were amazingly open and frank. But the best part was that they were between the two of them, with little intervention from either staff. Jed felt true progress was being made, even flat on his back – or propped up as he was in the middle of an ostentatious dragon bed.

"The U.S.'s health care GNP ratio is fourteen percent, Mister President," he argued on the second day of his convalescence at the Presidential Residence, trying to push back the persistent reminder from his body that he was way past time for his pain medicine. "China's is only four percent."

Hu Jintao sat in a chair he had pulled up at the bedside of his counterpart, his earlier silence replaced by almost eager discussion. Maybe it was their mutual survival of a murder attempt that had drawn them closer. If so, Jed Bartlet was grateful for the opportunity, even if it had put him in harm's way and – he admitted only to himself and sometimes to Abbey – in considerable pain.

"Mister President," Jintao returned, "of our one point three billion people, nine hundred million – seventy percent – live in the rural areas. Their access to healthcare is limited, but those who live in urban areas have broad access."

The American President had to agree that the care he had received at the Xian Gaoxin Hospital was impressive. Of course, he couldn't take for granted that he had been treated just as any other patient. "Yes, but you have to know that access to health care in many of your areas is governed by the ability to pay. Our indications are that eighty-seven percent of sick people in your rural areas pay their medical expenses completely by themselves."

He tried to shift, quickly decided against it. "Twenty-five percent of those have to borrow money to pay their fees and more than sixty percent have to leave the hospital before they are fully recovered because they are unable to pay their bills." Pausing to take a breath, he was irritated to hear the labored wheezing. It certainly didn't punctuate his point like he wanted.

The Chinese president offered him a sip of water. Jed waved him away. He despised lying in the bed, invalided, while the other man walked around perfectly healthy, but Abbey – and fifteen other doctors – had not budged, despite his valiant attempts to talk her into letting him sit in an arm chair. He supposed he was lucky she allowed him the talks in the first place.

Settling back, Hu Jintao pursed his lips for a moment, as if considering revealing some great secret to his adversary. Finally, he nodded and said, "We are considering the creation of a cooperative system, which will provide insurance to rural residents."

Well, that was a surprise. He raised a brow. "How far along are you?"

"It has begun, at least. By 2010 we should have implemented it throughout the country. It will provide each medical account of rural dwellers in our central and western regions with ten yuan, which is – "

"A dollar twenty U.S.," Bartlet supplied instantly.

"Yes." Hu Jintao seemed appropriately impressed. "This will at least partially cover medical costs."

"This is for everyone?"

"They must contribute ten yuan in order to join the system. Then they may participate."

Jed nodded and leaned back against the pillows. He couldn't put off the pain killers much longer. Still, he didn't want to stop now that they had latched onto something. Just a few more minutes. It was a start.

**Steps of the Hall of Supreme Harmony**

**The Forbidden City**

**8:35 a.m., Thursday**

**Beijing Time**

And it had been a start. It had led to more detailed conversations, to true give and take between leaders who wanted to make a difference. But, standing there on that triumphant day, with papers signed and crowds cheering, he couldn't figure out which conversation Hu Jintao was talking about. His lack of enlightenment must have shown, because the other man chuckled – a rare sound – and clarified.

"Yin and yang."

Ah. Yes, he remembered that one. Definitely.

And then he couldn't help it. The President of the United States blushed, right before the cheering crowds, before the international cameras. He hoped they wouldn't notice, or at least they'd figure it was a response to the victory of the moment. But both he and Hu Jintao knew it wasn't.

**The Chinese Presidential Residence**

**3:15 p.m., Thursday after the Xian Incident**

**Beijing Time**

After they had come to a consensus on the health care issue, had established cooperation between Chinese and American doctors, a sharing of knowledge and research, the American President was fighting the fatigue of both his wounds and his efforts.

During the lull, when Jed had once again surrendered to the overriding need for pain medicine and was struggling with its persuasive effects, the Chinese president suddenly cleared his throat. "If I might ask a question of a more personal nature, Mister President?"

Trying to push one more beam of focus through his thickening thoughts, he narrowed his eyes. Personal nature? There were many questions that could be asked. Many questions he had no intention of answering. After a moment, he swallowed and took a breath. "Okay."

Standing, the Chinese president turned his back and paced. Jed realized he was nervous for some reason. This must be some question. Still fighting his sluggish brain, he began wading through diplomatic answers to inquiries about his MS, about Zoey's kidnapping ordeal, even about his colossally stupid agreement to accept Bingo Bob as his VP.

Jintao cleared his throat once, paused, cleared it again. "It is, ah, about Doctor Bartlet."

Well, hell, just what he needed.

Abbey had finally gotten tired of being treated like a second-class citizen and had lambasted somebody, maybe Jintao himself. Probably on national television. An international incident. The talks were in jeopardy. The Chinese president was about to ask the U.S. President why the hell he couldn't control his wife.

In his fuzzy state, he couldn't seem to grab onto a measured, cautious response.

The flash of panic disappeared under a rush of anger. How dare they lord their hypocritical superiority over her – over all women! Even with the talks in danger, he couldn't lie there and let that man insult his wife. He opened his mouth to tell Jintao just what he thought of his bigoted attitudes. Fortunately, instead, the other man threw him a different pitch.

"I have noticed – "

He had noticed what? That Abbey was an undisciplined and insubordinate woman who shouldn't be involved in her husband's politics? That Abbey was outspoken and bold? Or maybe it was that Abbey was hot and the Chinese president wanted her for his concubine.

Okay, that medicine was definitely taking effect now. He blinked hard to draw himself back to reality.

"I have noticed that you and your wife – Doctor Bartlet – seem to have a deep bond."

"Pardon?" A curve ball.

"A bond. If you'll pardon my frankness, it appears to be both emotional and physical."

"Yeah."

"I was just wondering what – what created such a bond."

They had discussed many things during his few days at the residence: healthcare, economic trade, North Korea, even Taiwan to a certain degree. This did not fall into any of those categories, and he was having trouble figuring out where the Chinese leader was going with it.

"Our people are – subtle – about their affection, Mister President," he said, and Jed figured he was about to get a lecture on public hand-holding. But Hu Jintao surprised him. "You enjoy each other. That is obvious. She is – a partner?"

Jed's eyes softened. "She is."

"In all senses of the word?"

Now the President narrowed his eyes. Wait a minute. What exactly was being implied here? But he was too tired and too out of it to give back anything but the truth. "In all senses, Mister President. She is the other half of my soul."

If Jintao found this unbelievable or corny, he didn't indicate it. "I see. I wish – " But he stopped, and after a pause, he smiled, almost an embarrassed, tight smile, and asked, "Did you know that there are many ancient sexual customs in our culture?"

"Really?" In fact, he did, having run across a few tidbits in his research before their opera visit four months –

Dear God! Maybe he was right about Hu Jintao's motives earlier. Abbey was hot and the Chinese leader – He really wasn't about to be asked if he would share Abbey, was he? Their teasing conversation during that performance from their first visit came back to him. Oh God!

"Symbols. Stories. Artwork. There is one particular carving of a man and a woman – "

He trailed off, and Jed wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

"I have not been able to keep from noticing that your wife – the First Lady – is quite, ah, how do you say, extraordinary."

Shit. He was lying there in a grotesquely ornate bed, about to be offered a chance to recreate _Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice_ with a decidedly eastern slant. The American President narrowed his eyes. "Yes," he agreed warily. "Yes, she is." And you had better not think you are going to find out exactly how extraordinary, you bastard.

"You love her very much." A statement, not a question.

His head was swimming now. "Yes, I do."

"She was very protective of you on the plane," Hu Jintao remembered.

"What?" Another curve ball. This guy could pitch for the Red Sox.

"On the airplane. She was protective of you."

Jed winced at the scattered memories he had of that nightmare. His main vision, the one that haunted him almost nightly in the midst of tortured dreams, was of the Chinese doctor backhanding Abbey, and the red fire that swept through his body in response. The next one was of the briefcase that would blow them all away. "Yeah?"

"She refused to get off, even though your agent and your chief of staff were insisting."

That sounded like Abbey, all right. "She makes me whole," he said with the simple declaration of truth.

After a moment's consideration, the Chinese president nodded. "Yes. I can see that. Are you familiar with yin and yang, Mister President?"

Jed shrugged, regretting it immediately. He sucked in a sharp breath, but shook off Hu Jintao's quick concern. "Vaguely," he admitted when he could speak again. At least the pain had cleared his thoughts a bit, and he felt embarrassed at his earlier assumption. Besides, Hu Jintao couldn't possibly expect that Abbey was a fair trade for the Chinese First Lady.

All right, he wasn't focusing.

"It means many things, but in the Chou Dynasty, it represented the woman and the man."

"Taoism," the President added.

"Yes." Hu Jintao cocked his head. "You know it?"

"I know a little," he admitted. "As I recall, it was rather vague. A concept of what controls the universe. God, in a way, but not God."

"That is – perhaps part of it. Tao is at once the universal pageant of the constellations and the budding of each new leaf in the spring. It is the constant round of life and death and all that falls between. It resides in us as we reside in it. It is the source as well as the end of our being. It neither judges nor condemns but continually blesses, in all moments, an unending cycle of change and renewal."

Yeah, well, okay. It was the kind of talk he usually ate up, but his waning focus was getting in the way of philosophy. Even so, he fought to hang in there.

"Tao," Hu Jintao continued, "is the way, as in direction, as in manner, source, destination, purpose, and process. In discovering and exploring Tao the process and the destination are one and the same."

Was he saying that their process and destination toward and east/west agreement were one in the same? "I see." But he wasn't sure he really did. "What does this have to do with yin and yang, Mister President?" he wondered, hoping he could remain conscious long enough to hear the answer.

"Yin and yang are energies. They create a balance in life, in all things. The woman represents the yin; the man, the yang. In sexual terms, the woman was said to have inexhaustible yin essence."

Was this man really talking about what he thought he was talking about? Where would they log this discussion in the history books? "Um – "

"But the man was said to have a limited supply of yang."

"Sucks." He was pretty sure they weren't talking about treaties anymore.

"Because of this, the man had to acquire the woman's yin essence several times before allowing himself to spend his yang."

He thanked God no one was recording this for posterity. "I see." All too well.

"It was a matter of health," Hu Jintao explained.

He could see Abbey now as he explained that they must have sex again and again because of medical reasons. On second thought, it just might work –

"She is the yin to your yang, Mister President. Not only in the sexual sense, but also in life itself. Two forces that come together to create everything in life."

When did this guy become the philosopher? Jed smiled, letting the warmth of the medicine slide through him, not trying to stay with the discussion any longer. Yin and yang. "Yes," he acknowledged, drawing out the "s" as his mouth slackened.

"We can be yin and yang, too."

Okay, what -

"Our countries."

Oh. Right. Sure. He knew that. "I get to be the yang, then," he mumbled, fading quickly. This was a good step, he knew, and would reflect on it later, when his brain wasn't ambushed by chemicals. For the moment, he could only nod and hope that Hu Jintao understood.

Yin and yang. Give and take. The forces of life. Wasn't that what it was all about, anyway?

**Steps of the Hall of Supreme Harmony**

**The Forbidden City**

**8:37 a.m., Thursday**

**Beijing Time**

His mind grasping the identified discussion, Jed allowed himself to focus back on the present, on the clear sky, on the crowd, on the almost-smirking cohort next to him.

"Oh, yes, Mister President," he assured Hu Jintao, "I certainly do remember that discussion."

With a rare gleam in his dark eyes, Hu Jintao leaned closer. "Think of that when you open your gift."

Whoa. What on earth had this guy gotten him?

He lifted a brow in question, but the Chinese president simply smiled enigmatically. "I believe you will understand."

They turned to the crowd, cheering even more loudly. Jed allowed himself a moment of self-glory. Only a moment, because he had not done this alone. Still, he had to admit that he did a hell of a lot and that it was a masterful and hopeful work of diplomacy. There was hope, now, where only a mad man would have envisioned it before. There was a future in China and a future in America. Yin and yang. And he was the mad man who brought it about.

**The Chinese Presidential Residence**

**VIP Bedroom Suite**

**6:30 p.m. Thursday**

**Beijing Time**

**POV: Charlie**

Charlie Young had been privy to uncounted historical moments in his amazing service as bodyman to Jed Bartlet. He had witnessed public and private triumphs, as well as defeats. And each time he learned a little more about the man he worked for – about the father he loved. As he watched the President dress for the evening ceremonies, he did not think he could be prouder.

That morning, standing against the rich and ancient backdrop of the Forbidden City, he had found his breath catching, his heart racing, his eyes stinging with the emotions of the moment, with the vision that he knew would follow him forever of the President of the United States signing a document that bridged east and west, that brought the most significant opportunity for freedom to the largest remaining communist country in the world. The hand shakes, the waves, the smiles. The media could capture all of those things. But they couldn't really capture the spirit, the hope that crackled on the crisp air that day. Hope for both nations. Hope for the world.

Charlie felt it. He knew the President felt it.

As always, his eyes had watched Jed Bartlet carefully, even more so because he knew the President was still recovering from his injuries, still ached from his ribs, still fought an occasional headache. He had seen him rotate his shoulder and wince when he thought no one was watching. He had seen him brace a hand against his side when he turned suddenly. He had seen him try to hide these discomforts from the First Lady. He had seen the First Lady frown when she saw them anyway.

But he had also seen him battered and bleeding and – they all figured – dying on the floor of _Air Force One_, and considered his current condition a blessing.

His own sacrifice – the one the world media was calling heroic – was almost an embarrassment for him. He had simply acted on impulse, knowing his efforts were their only hope, his only chance to save the President – to save two presidents, a First Lady, a chief of staff, a chief of communications, the head of the Secret Service POTUS detail, and a whole bunch of veteran members of the press. He had just been a damned lucky son of a bitch that he hadn't been blown apart himself. He only knew he would not allow Jed Bartlet to be blown apart.

For his troubles, he had experienced something close to canonization from the media, had received medals for heroism from his own country and the PRC, had – with only scattered success –ducked interviews from every network, five different cable station, and hundreds of local stations. The only reward, however, that had meant anything to him came from the man he had done it all for.

All the other accolades paled in comparison with the simple "Thank you, son." Of course, the thank you was accompanied by an extended lecture on the foolishness of his actions and the warning that he should never – NEVER – place himself in such danger again. And a long, emotional embrace.

He loved Jed Bartlet so much.

Pushing down the swell of emotion that hit him with his reflections, Charlie cleared his throat and stood by while the President finished putting the studs in his tuxedo shirt and fumbled with his tie. After a moment or two without apparent success, the bodyman offered, "Do you need help with that, Mister President?"

It was the wrong thing to say. He could tell by the flash of irritation from those blue eyes. But the irritation was not directed at him. It was definitely aimed inward.

"I got it," he insisted, pulling the two sides apart and starting over.

Another try, unsuccessful. Charlie tried not to fidget. Usually, this was not a major task. The fact that it had suddenly become one presented an unwelcome worry. Just before he determined he would help anyway, the President blew out a hard breath.

"There," he announced, dropping his hands and presenting the neat bow for viewing. "Nothin' to it." But those eyes that had flashed a moment before flickered away quickly, not meeting Charlie's dark gaze.

Any further discussion, however, was lost with the knock at the door. Charlie took only one more glance at the President, who had moved away and flipped his jacket over his head, letting it slide down his arms into place, his own signature style. The bodyman grinned, despite the disturbing moment earlier. He loved to watch Jed Bartlet put on a coat.

The open door revealed a messenger, head bent in respect, arms extended, hands holding a colorfully-wrapped package. He nodded toward the President and smiled. "President to president," he explained in halting English.

"This is for the President?" Charlie tried to clarify.

The man nodded.

"From President Jintao?"

Another nod.

"Okay. Thanks." He took the package, and noted that it was rather heavy, even though it wasn't very large. Is it bigger than a breadbox?

"Whatcha got?" the President asked, straightening his cummerbund.

"A present to you from President Jintao," he said.

Now those blue eyes flickered again, but not with irritation, nor with anxiety. This time they flickered with mixture of amusement, anticipation, and – Charlie was not sure he really saw this – embarrassment. "Ah. Right. He said he was – okay, I'll just open this later."

"You sure?" Curiosity was a very human trait.

Now the President cut his eyes toward him, a knowing smirk curving his mouth. "You wanna know, huh?"

"It's up to you, of course, Mister President. It is a private gift, I know. You are under no obligation to share its contents with – yeah, I wanna know."

The President laughed, and it was good to see him not try to hold the breath shallow. "Well, maybe I'd better look at it before Abbey sees it. After the explanation I got – "

Now he was even more curious. He watched closely as the strong, square hands tore at the paper, uninterested in saving it. An ornate box sparkled at them, its gold and silver trim gleaming.

"Wow."

The President nodded his agreement, then lifted the lid. Wow suddenly seemed inadequate. Was that what he thought it was? Charlie glanced up at the President, who was staring, as well. Yeah, must be.

He blinked at the figures of the smooth carving. Surely they weren't – then he blinked again. Yeah, they were. He looked at the President, unable to keep from assessing his reaction. There weren't many times he had ever seen Jed Bartlet nonplussed. In fact, he wasn't sure it had ever really happened. Now, however –

"Sir, are they – "

"Yeah," he answered, an uncharacteristic flush sweeping across his cheeks. "Yeah, they are."

"That's from the Chinese president?" Charlie asked, a little unsure now that he got a better look at the present.

"Yep."

"The same one who frowned because you held Mrs. Bartlet's hand going up the steps to the Imperial Palace during your first visit?"

"Uh huh."

"He appears to have changed his mind."

The President stared at the figures a beat longer, then set the box on a nearby table. "Yeah," he agreed. But a faint smile grew to replace the bemusement. "Listen, Charlie, tonight, I – uh – the First Lady and I – "

"Yes, sir." No need to go further. Charlie understood. It wasn't as if he had never drawn barbecuing patrol before. And that present –

Still, the President wanted to be quite clear. "No interruptions, okay. I mean none. After the reception tonight, no one needs to see me. No one. Got it?"

The young bodyman put only mild effort into suppressing a grin and gave a pointed glance at the gift. "No interruptions, Mister President," he repeated, eyes gleaming.

Jed Bartlet's eyes narrowed. "Are you smirking?"

"Definitely, sir."

After only a quick pause, his chin jerked up and he gave Charlie a smirk of his own. "Okay."

With the tie trouble forgotten, at least for the moment, Charlie Young watched his boss – his father – stride from the room, whistling gleefully, triumph in his wake, the First Lady in his future. It took him only a few bars to recognize the tune "Indiscreet."

**The Imperial Palace sitting room**

**9:00 p.m. Thursday**

**Beijing Time**

**POV: Abbey**

First Lady Abigail Bartlet worked not to look at her watch. The reception had been over for thirty minutes and here she sat, still in the public eye, still under the scrutiny of the world while her husband was probably sound asleep on that horrible dragon bed in the quarters in the presidential residence. Not that she would even dream of denying him his rest. God knew he needed it.

But she just wanted so much to be with him, to hold him, to curl up in his arms. It had been so long. His injuries made such contact impossible until recently. His work schedule, piling up when he was able to take on heavier days, filled in the rest of their personal time. He had hinted that maybe they could repeat their experience on Air Force One from their earlier trip, but most of those hours were spent hammering out the final topics to discuss once they landed. Of the seventeen hours it took, thirteen were dedicated to work, two to sleep, and two to staring out the window. She had not asked what he was thinking. He had not volunteered.

Now, however, the deed was done. The treaty signed and celebrated. And she was proud of him, proud of the truly amazing accomplishment. She definitely believed that no one else could have done it. But she missed the hell out of him, and had hoped that perhaps after the reception they could just have a little quiet time in their suite, no talks, no negotiations, no treaties – and definitely no interruptions.

She looked back at her interviewer and tried to remember what the question had been. Finally, with a measured smile, she had to ask, "I'm sorry, what was that again?"

Diana Sawyer smiled back, as if she understood the First Lady's preoccupation. For the entire conversation she had been pleasant, gentle even. Not that Abbey had expected a grilling from the veteran reporter, but the atmosphere was decidedly sympathetic. Perhaps the trauma they had all witnessed brought more compassion to the interview.

"Certainly. It's been an eventful day."

Well, that was an understatement.

"I said, Mrs. Bartlet, that almost everyone is calling the President a hero. He placed himself in front of danger to save the life of his bodyman. He attacked the terrorist to save your life. He grappled for a briefcase that held a bomb to save the life of the Chinese President – the lives of everyone on that plane."

Jed. "Yes."

Sawyer gave her that personal smile, the one that was supposed to bring out some deep revelation no one had ever heard before. "Were you surprised?"

Abbey looked back. Was she surprised?

After all, this was Jed she was talking about. Her Jed. The same Jed who had accidentally run over Herb and Marjorie Douglas with his car. The same Jed who had crashed Leo's 4,000 bike into a tree in Jackson Hole. The same Jed who had visited all the national parks and tortured them all with inane statistics about obscure ancient civilizations. The same Jed who balanced his checkbook – and other peoples' checkbooks – just for fun.

Was she surprised?

This was also the same Jed who had stayed on the line with a terrified radio operator on a tender ship while they listened to the doomed craft founder. The same Jed who joked his way through the trauma room at George Washington Hospital with a bullet wound through his abdomen. The same Jed who had met the world head on with the truth about his multiple sclerosis. The same Jed who had turned over the Presidency of the United States without hesitation in order to save his child. The same Jed who had almost single-handedly forged an impossible peace between Israel and Palestine.

This was Jed. Her Jed.

Was she surprised?

She smiled. "No. Not at all."

**The Imperial Palace VIP Bedroom Suite**

**9:50 p.m. Thursday**

**Beijing Time**

Abbey Bartlet tried not to rush through the halls of the presidential residence, tried to maintain a pace appropriate to the dignity of the position of First Lady, tried not to give the indication that she was late for her rendezvous with the President of the United States – a rendezvous that she had waited sixteen weeks for. From the glances she received from her agents, she wasn't completely successful. She looked again. Okay, not really successful at all. Well, she didn't give a damn. Not tonight.

Tonight, her husband served no other mistresses. Not the Joint Chiefs, not the Chief of Staff, not the DNC, not the Press, not China. Tonight, he served only her – and she served him. The flush that swept across her cheeks merely telegraphed her plans more clearly. The nearest agent cleared his throat and lowered his gaze.

Almost there. Her heels clicked on the floor, slowing only when she reached the delicately carved doors of their suite.

Her heart sank when she saw Charlie Young waiting for her.

Damn. Damn. There were many reasons for him to be there, many messages he could be delivering. But almost all of them involved her husband being somewhere else.

I'm sorry, but the President was called away to another meeting.

I'm sorry, but the President had to deal with some forgotten detail of protocol.

I'm sorry, but the President was involved in keeping Ickystan and Bleckistan from annihilating each other.

I'm sorry, but –

Whatever it was, it was not good for her.

Damn.

"Good evening, Doctor Bartlet," he greeted. Since the attack, he had referred to her exclusively as Doctor, not Mrs. Bartlet.

Despite her disappointment, she smiled at him. Six years ago, she would never have imagined that the raw, unsure boy would grow to become such an integral part of their lives. He had become a confidant, a protector, a sounding board – a son. And now, amazingly, he was a savior. But she knew he didn't want the limelight, was uncomfortable with the attention. So instead of the warm hug she wanted to wrap around him, she smiled.

"Good evening, Charlie."

"I have a message for you, Ma'am," he said without further conversation.

Of course. Maybe it wasn't too late to procure a ticket to the opera.

"The President sends his compliments and would like for you to know that there will be no interruptions tonight."

Hold on. "Jed told you to tell me – "

"He was quite firm, Ma'am. No interruptions."

"Jed's here?"

Charlie's eyes widened, as if he didn't know why she should think otherwise. "Yes, ma'am."

She wondered if he could hear her heart beating again, if he could see the chill bumps race over her skin, if he could feel the charge of sexual desire crackle through the air. Well, if he could, it wasn't anything he hadn't witnessed before in his years of service to the President and First Lady.

Calmly masking her tingling anticipation, she smiled again. "Thank you, Charlie." Then her doctor's instincts – or maybe her maternal instincts – nudged her to place a hand on his arm and ask, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, Ma'am."

"Really?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Good as new."

Ah, youth. And thank God for it.

A darker thought passed through her mind. "How's he feeling?"

It was only a slight hesitation, but it was noticeable, nevertheless. "Fine."

Damn. "Charlie – " He had to know that tone. He had heard her use it on the President often enough.

"Really, Ma'am. I think he's fine."

"You THINK?"

Their eyes met, conveyed the message sufficiently without words. Jed was fine – compared to what he was, but not completely. She knew that, had seen the winces, the stiff movements. He was still recovering. To be honest, so was she; if not physically, then certainly emotionally.

"Enjoy your evening, Ma'am," Charlie offered. "The President is looking forward to it."

She got the hint. Don't ask. Don't ruin it by quizzing him on how he feels. She usually didn't take orders from someone 30 years her junior – or her senior for that matter – but Charlie had insight into her husband that sometimes she didn't have. And he had earned a few liberties over the years – certainly over the most recent months. Tonight, she would follow the subtle suggestion. Tomorrow – tomorrow was another day.

"Thank you, Charlie," she said, ignoring his embarrassment and giving him a kiss on the cheek that conveyed more than just thanks. It carried the conspiracy of two who loved one man, who looked after one man.

"Yes, Ma'am." With a nod, he closed the doors behind her.

When she stepped into the room, the first thing she noticed was the statue of two snake-humans fornicating.

Okay. She was pretty sure that had not been there before. It would have been hard to miss. She peered closer at the dark marbled stone that sat – reclined? – on the table. The male – and there was no doubt it was the male – perched on his knees, or his tail really, since the lower part of his body curved into a snake. The female lay before him, her own tail interlocked with his in a sensual, erotic arch that left no doubt about the significance of the entwined figures.

She couldn't wait to hear the explanation for that.

Candles lit the room with soft, warm flickers, throwing dancing shadows against the rich drapes. She didn't recognize the music; it lilted with the plucking notes of the Orient, but the mood was set, nevertheless. Yes, a perfect scene. There was just one thing missing.

"Jed?"

Only the music answered her. Maybe Charlie was wrong. Maybe Jed had been called away. Maybe –

"Jed?"

"Here."

Okay. Good. Yes. The bathroom.

Smiling in almost girlish anticipation, she kicked off her heels and sauntered to the door that separated the sleeping chamber from the bath. They had already admired the ancient accommodations as they had meshed with modern conveniences. The focal point of the room was the huge footed tub that was as wide as it was long, looking as if it had been built to host a party of bathers. Well, they were going to have a party, all right.

When she entered, she saw that it was already occupied. Her husband reclined lazily, arms draped over the side. She ran her eyes appreciatively over the sight, starting with his forearms. She loved his forearms. She loved the golden hair that curled over the muscles, the square hands that could be both gentle and bold. The water lapped at his chest when he shifted to raise a glass of bubbly liquid toward her, and her gaze moved down his body. Below the waterline, she saw clearly that she was not the only one anticipating the evening.

"Good evening, Mister President," she greeted, taking the glass from his hand, a jolt of desire jumping between them as their fingers touched.

"Madame First Lady," he returned. She caught her breath at the sensuality in that rich voice and the raw lust in those blue eyes. "Join me?"

"Thought you'd never ask." Squelching the urge to tear off her clothes and jump him right then, she turned her disrobing into a seductive, sensuous strip-tease, earning her a groan from him. She looked down to assess her success. Oh, yes.

The water was warm and silken against her skin. She didn't slide up next to him at first, but teased him by sitting on the opposite side, letting her toes tickle the soles of his feet, daring him to make the first move. Despite his obvious physical response to her, though, he managed to stay put. Damn it.

"You were expecting company?" she asked innocently.

He didn't even flinch. "Just waiting for my yin."

"Pardon?"

"My yin." His eyes snapped with mischief. Tonight would be fun.

Well, she was more than capable of playing the game. "Is that your geisha's name?"

"First of all, Madame Butterfly, geishas are Japanese."

Time to twist things in her own direction. She smirked and asked, "Where'd you get the pornography out front?"

His brows rose in feigned innocence. "That's not pornography," he protested. "It's art – ancient Chinese art, for your information."

"Um hmm. What'd you do, have Ron sneak around the black market section?"

"I'll have you know that was a gift from the President of the People's Republic of China."

Oh God. C.J. would flip if Jed brought home a statue of screwing snake people. "I hope he doesn't expect us to put it on display at the Smithsonian," she said, not completely joking.

He shook his head. "Nah. I figured we'd have a special showing of it in the East Room."

"Jed – " She knew he was kidding. She was pretty sure –

"You're too easy," he grinned. Jackass. "Hu Jintao gave it to me – to us, really – not to the President of the United States."

Well, that was better, but – "Why?"

"I'm pretty sure he wants to do a little swinging. You, me, him and Mrs. Hu Jintao."

"What?"

"Yeah. You know, in the interest of east-west relations."

She wasn't usually too credulous, but he was selling this one quite well. Not a hint of a smile. Still – "Jed – "

"Too easy," he reminded, then smiled. "Actually, he thinks you're extraordinary. His very word."

She smirked, acknowledging the stripe of pleasure that gave her. "Yeah?"

"He's right, of course." The man could be so dear sometimes.

"Jed – "

But he cut her off with a sudden launch into his professorial tone. "The figures of the statue represent yin and yang, the balance of nature, of life – of sexual fulfillment. It's actually a reproduction of a stone carving from the Han Dynasty. The interlocking tails are a metaphor for sexual intercourse."

"Not much of a metaphor," she observed. "Doesn't take a Nobel Prize winner to see what they are doing."

"Does it take one to do what they are doing?" he smirked.

She ignored him. "Hu Jintao really gave you this?"

Jed smiled softly, and she felt her heart pound at the warmth in his eyes. "He said you are the yin to my yang."

All right. He could just take her right then, no waiting, no teasing. Bring it on.

"Did you know," he said, swirling the liquid in his own glass, "that in the Chou Dynasty women were said to have an inexhaustible supply of yin essence?"

"Really?" Nerd hot talk. She loved it.

He nodded and pulled in his legs, shifting a little closer. She was getting to him, not that it was all that difficult. "Unfortunately, men have a limited supply of yang."

"You're saying no one knew that already?"

Setting down his glass, he stretched out on his stomach and leaned forward so that his chin rested on her right thigh. His fingertips danced just below her navel. This was more like it. "I'm sayin' you women had it good in the old days."

"How's that?"

"Well," he continued, letting his hand slide to caress the inside of her left thigh, "that meant that before he could ejaculate, the man had to make the woman orgasm several times to acquire her yin essence."

Several times? Oh, this was definitely more like it. She tried not to squirm.

"If a man ejaculated or used up his yang essence without taking any yin essence, it was said to cause him health problems and even death." His hand slid lower now.

Nerdy, maybe. Hot, definitely. She smiled and arched into his feather touch, groaning as he pulled away. "We, uh, we wouldn't want that, would we?"

"No, indeed." He eased his body back, moving between her thighs and lowering his mouth to lick teasingly in her soft folds at water level. Oh God! The electricity shot through her body, her muscles writhed under his caresses.

Her nerves trembled, on the edge, burning with the need to reach completion. But he didn't let her. He kept her poised for ecstasy, slowing when she got too close, going fast when she got too relaxed. Over and over until she felt that her heart was going to explode as soon as her body did. Finally, she clutched at his shoulders, groaning her need. He didn't need the words. He knew her body well. With dedicated movements, he threw her into the passionate convulsions she had yearned for from the very moment his lips touched her. Out of control, she bucked beneath, only vaguely concerned with how hard she thrust against him. Again and again, the spasms shot through her, until finally her body collapsed, trembling and exhausted into the cooling water.

When she was able to open her eyes, she saw him watching her, those beautiful blues sharp with a mixture of satisfaction and lust. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe that the first acquisition of yin has been accomplished," he declared, grinning.

She smiled back, admiring the masculine beauty of his face, the rakish flop of his hair, the strong swell of his shoulders. Oh yes. Definitely accomplished.

But she figured the yang deserved a little attention, too. Pushing against his chest gently to have him sit, she kissed him, soft at first, then harder, tasting herself in his mouth, igniting her still smoldering desire. She held his face tightly, then let her hands slide down his chest and over his ribs.

The sudden, harsh grunt stopped her cold.

Looking down, she brushed her fingers over the area she had just touched, the area that had drawn an uncomfortable reaction from him: the smooth, pink scar that she, herself, had created. It was to save his life, certainly, but that didn't mean she could stop the cringe when she had to look at that scar and know it was one more mar on his body, one more imperfection. And she had done it.

"Babe?" His voice was soft, almost a whisper.

She looked up and tried to smile, but the tears sparkling in her eyes belied her expression.

"Hey, it's okay," he assured her, cupping her face in his palm, realizing what had affected her. "Abbey, it's all right."

"No, it's not. We shouldn't – I should have known it was too soon – "

But he shook his head and drew her hand to his groin so that she could feel the hardness, understand that he was ready. "I'm fine, Abbey. More than fine, I – "

"I didn't want to do it," she choked out, unable to move away from the sudden vision of that horrible moment on the floor of the cabin on Air Force One, the moment she sliced into her own husband's body, the moment she pulled his ribs apart to thrust in a foreign object, the moment she had desperately fumbled to keep him from dying under her own hands.

"What?"

"I didn't want – I had to, but I didn't want to." The sobs clogged her throat, broke up her words. "But you – you were dying, and I was the only one – I had to – "

"Oh, Abbey," he whispered, moving her hand up so that they both could touch the scar. "Don't do this. You can't think it was bad thing."

"You couldn't breathe, see, I had to – "

Now he pulled back and caught her shoulders with both his hands. "Look at me, Abigail."

She did, the guilt welling up in her chest, overflowing in tears from her eyes. But she didn't see blame, she didn't see pain. She didn't see anything except love – no, not love. Adoration. Those blue eyes drowned her in their devotion, in their warmth, in their absolute and unconditional love.

"What you did was incredible. It was heroic." He placed her hand flat against the scar and covered it with his. "It was life, Abbey. You gave me life."

You gave me life. God, she loved this man. "I'm sorry – "

His fingers touched her lips. "No. Don't say that. I'm not sorry. If you hadn't done that, I wouldn't be doing this."

Then his lips replaced his fingers and she clung to him, desperate to feel him against her, to reclaim that connection she had feared would be lost to her forever. Their movements grew frantic, uncontrolled. Water sloshed over the sides of the tub, but neither noticed. She tugged at his hips, tried to pull him to her, to satisfy her ache to have him full and complete inside her once more.

But he stopped her, drawing back with a groan. Instantly, she stilled, angry with herself for hurting him. With effort she pressed down her own surging desires and addressed his needs.

"You okay?" she asked, trying to catch her breath. "How are your ribs?"

The doctors had given him a clean bill of health to travel back to China, to finalize the agreements between Hu Jintao and him. They had also cleared him for other activities, but she wouldn't push, wouldn't even hint until he was ready, despite the almost constant ache to be with him. She had seen the aborted movements, had watched him grimace in response to a quick turn, had known about the quiet requests to his bodyman for aspirin.

"They're fine, Abbey. I feel fine."

"Not sore? Not tender?"

"Nah." In other words, hell yes.

"Maybe we should just go to sleep," she suggested, trying – and failing – to be convincing. To put more teeth into it, she braced to rise from the tub. The water was almost cold now, anyway.

His fingers left her arms to trail between her breasts. She caught her breath. "Jed – "

But he leaned in and let his mouth touch hers again softly, ran his tongue over her skin. "Don't wanna sleep. Not yet."

Her skin exploded in shivers. She wanted nothing more than to lie with him, to feel his body against hers, to shudder as he pushed into her slowly, as he led them forward, harder and harder until they – but she couldn't. Damn it. He still hurt, she could tell. And she wouldn't do anything to make it worse.

"You stopped us – I thought – "

"No, Sweet Knees. I stopped because things were happening too fast. See, I haven't gotten my quota of yin, yet. Gotta take care of that before the yang can – "

"Jackass," she grinned with relief, hoping he really was being a delightful jackass, praying it wasn't just a bluff to mask his pain.

But he responded with complete seriousness, and she felt a thrill down her spine at the passion in his eyes. "I want you so much, Abbey. I can't tell you how much I've missed holding you, touching you." He ran his fingers lower to rest below her navel. "Being inside you."

Oh, how she had missed that, too. They could go slowly. She could be gentle. Damn it! Her own desires, raging now, pushed past her medical logic.

She lay back in the tub, the pose of her body clearly seductive, blatantly inviting, the water brushing at her breasts. She needed him so badly, ached for him, and her blood surged as he stood, blatantly displaying his surging arousal. Licking her lips, she ran her fingers over her breasts, lifted her hips toward him.

"God, Abbey," he groaned. "It's been four months. Do you want me to come right now?"

She grinned and reached out a hand to him. "As long as you come inside me, Babe, it doesn't matter when – "

He groaned again and offered his hand to pull her up. "It'll be warmer in the bed."

As they stepped from the tub, she rubbed her dripping body against his, sliding her fingers over his chest, threading through the wet, curly hair that ran down to his abdomen and lower. He moved with her, pressing his hips to hers, and she gasped at the urgent pulses that beat against her pubis. They didn't have time to dry off, couldn't wait for anything now.

She heard the strain in his voice. "Abbey, you'd better – "

She grasped him, her fingers dancing up the shaft. God, he was hard and way past ready. Well, he wasn't the only one. She was so aroused again that it wouldn't take much for either of them. Somehow, they stumbled to the dragon bed, not bothering to pull back the covers as they fell onto them, bodies sliding together, slick and wet. She wrapped her legs around his hips, which pushed forward, his burning erection searching hungrily for her entrance, for the familiar territory he had first claimed so many years before.

She cried out when he thrust in, unable to hold back, to take things slowly. She knew they heard her outside the door. She didn't care.

Her muscles greeted him eagerly as he plowed deeper, thick and strong, and he didn't stop until he couldn't go any farther, until he was buried as deep inside her as she could take him. Abbey tightened her legs around him as he lay there for a moment, throbbing at her center.

"Move, Jed!" she demanded. "Please, I need you – I need – "

But he had regained some control, and she opened frustrated eyes to see him grinning down at her and shaking his head. "Not yet, Sweet Knees," he teased, pulling back slowly, so that he was almost completely out.

She tried to arch up to force him back, but he placed a hand on her stomach to still her before sinking in. She groaned. What a time for him to find willpower. He held still again, full and deep inside her.

"Just feel that, Babe," he coaxed. "Feel how much I want you. Feel how good this is. God, you feel so good, Abbey."

Oh yes, she felt it. It was good. It was glorious. She just didn't know how much more glory she could take. The waves were building even though the only movement was the involuntary pulses his body sent through him.

"Josiah," she whispered, bringing his hand up to her lips, taking his middle finger into her mouth and sucking it, then licking between each of the other fingers.

He grunted and dropped his head. "Not – fair," he accused, pulling his hand away. "I want this to last."

They could make the next time last. The hell with it this time. She needed him. She needed him to move and move hard and move now.

"I can't wait, Jed," she groaned. "I need to – "

"Go ahead," he urged, taking her wrists in his hands and raising her arms above her head to pin her to the bed. "I've got you." And he pulled back with aching slowness, only to push back in just as slowly, just as agonizingly. Then, he bent his head and kissed her neck, his lips sucking gently at first, then harder. She would have a mark there in the morning. She didn't care. She felt so full, so complete. And he wasn't even moving. She was going mad, right on the edge, every muscle poised, every nerve trembling.

"You are making me – pay for that remark on the plane the first time we – came here, aren't you?" she accused, her voice hoarse.

He raised an innocent brow and nudged her hips a little. She groaned. "I have no idea what you are talking about, Hot Lips."

"You know – very well."

He moved again, slowly, tauntingly. God, she wasn't going to survive this.

"Remind me," he suggested, flicking his tongue across her left nipple and letting his shaft flare inside her.

"Uh, it was – it was – " It was what? She couldn't think suddenly.

"Yes?" Now his teeth nibbled at her earlobe. Oh, he was pure evil.

"I, uh, I might have, uh, suggested that we wouldn't need – " He pumped hard. She gasped.

"Wouldn't need what, Sweetheart?" Pure evil.

"A whole hour to – to make love."

"No?"

"I was wrong," she pleaded.

"You were wrong?" Another lick, this time between her breasts.

"Oh, God, was I wrong."

"You bet your ass you were wrong," he growled, and she felt him give up a little of the control as he pulled back and plunged in hard. "Besides, I'm just following the advice of the ancient Chinese. Yin and yang, Babe. Yin and yang."

"Jed!" She knew he heard that tone, realized she was there. No more play. It was time to get serious.

Abandoning his slow, taunting pace, he swung into a faster, more terminal rhythm. And it was incredible. He felt so good, hitting deep, twisting his hips up to grind against her clitoris with each down stroke. Her legs began to tremble, the momentum building inside. He released his hold on her hands to brace himself, and she clutched at his shoulders, her head arched back as their hips met again and again, harder and harder.

"Jed!" The burst of ecstasy shot through her, grabbing her nerves and throwing her muscles into convulsions with the magnificent explosion.

He rode out the waves with her, whispering in her ear. "That's it, Babe. You are so beautiful. I love you, Abbey. I love you."

Finally, her body relaxed its relentless grasp on her muscles, and she collapsed beneath him, her arms sliding from his shoulders, her legs dropping from his waist.

Even with her eyes closed, she heard the smirk. "Second acquisition of yin accomplished," he boasted. "And now it's yang's turn."

Giving her only a minute to recover, he settled himself inside her again, then withdrew, his movements smooth and fluid with her climax. He had been so patient, so controlled, so deliciously evil, and now he deserved a reward. Drawing her legs back around him, she arched up to meet his thrusts, to give him a little twist of her own. Her teeth tugged at his chest hair, her tongue licked at his nipples, her fingers ran down his stomach to caress him as he pulled back, to touch where they joined.

He groaned, pushed harder, faster. Sweat trickled down his face. She had not planned on coming again, but the friction and heat his body created against hers pulled her back into the conflagration, and she knew she would be right there with him.

As she moved with him, though, she noticed that his breath began to grow labored, and she slowed, concerned. One didn't play with a collapsed lung, even after four months. What if –

"Jed – "

But he shook his head and urged her on with his hips. "Don't – stop," he gasped, no longer smug, no longer in control. She loved him even more for it. "Almost – there – "

Then he was, his body tensing, his eyes closing, his teeth gritting. Even if she had wanted to stop, it was too late. She felt him swell even larger within her, felt the wave sweep through his length, felt the strong first pulse jerk inside her, felt the explosion of liquid heat overflow. And she was gone, too, her muscles milking him, pulling at his continuing spasms as he pumped, over and over, on and on.

"Abbey!" he gasped, neck muscles taut, jaw clenched. He drove into her several more times until he gave a final shuddering thrust and melted onto her body, his random lingering pulses still throbbing at her center.

There was certainly something to be said for the ancient Chinese, she decided. Yin and yang, indeed. Or rather yin and yin and yin and yang.

But it took only a moment for her brain to key back on what had bothered her earlier. His breathing continued to be fast, harsh almost. And even though she dreaded giving up that incredible feeling of intimacy, of oneness that she felt still joined with him, her instincts prodded her to move, pushing up so that he was forced to withdraw. Even then, it took some effort, and when he gave in to her, he had barely pulled out before he was collapsing onto the bed, his breath coming in gasps.

"Jed?"

Her only answer was the labored breathing.

"Jed?" More urgent this time. Answer me, damn it.

"I'm – all – right," he managed, the strained tone belying his words.

She rose now, sat to look down at him. Lines of sweat trailed down his face and dripped onto the sheets; his glistening chest heaved, fighting for the needed oxygen; his skin was flushed.

"Bull." Damn it! She had known it was too soon. She had let herself be carried away by his charms, by his words, and by her own impatient desires. "Do you have pain? Tightness? Can you breathe all right?" Her hands automatically moved over his ribs.

"Abbey, I'm – fine," he insisted, pulling away from her examination, but the gasps didn't support the assurance.

"Try not to fight it. Let your body – "

"Just give me – a minute." It wasn't a plea, but it was close. He lay on the bed, eyes closed, chest rising and falling. She counted the breaths, listened for any struggle, any wheezing. After a moment or two, they grew shallower, less frantic. Thank God.

"Babe?" she asked gently.

He opened his eyes and smiled sheepishly.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he assured her. "It's just – that was the first time since – I'm just a little – out of practice."

She narrowed her eyes doubtfully, gauging his honesty, her body still tingling from his touch. "You didn't seem too out of practice to me."

"Well, it's like – riding a bike," he said, offering her a boyish smile, breath almost normal. "You never really forget."

The medical part of her brain assessed his condition even as the lover part bantered.

"A bike, huh? I feel like I've just ridden a Harley," she said, slapping at him playfully when he gave her a proud smirk. At the same time, her fingers curled around his wrist, taking his pulse.

"A Harley?" he prodded, ignoring the obvious check on his health.

Heart rate a little fast, but not alarming, considering he had just had some pretty intense sex. Her answer was only a little in jest. "Only the biggest and best."

"Damn straight."

Satisfied he really was all right, she laid her head on his chest and let her fingers swirl the hair.

"Besides," he added more smoothly, "you've always taken my breath away, Hot Buns."

"Josiah Bartlet," she threatened, "so help me, if you are lying – "

He ran his hands up both sides of her spine. "What does your exam say?"

Well, hell. Her mouth turned up into a smirk against his chest. "It says if we're going to do that again, you might need to borrow an inhaler."

"Then you'd better find me one, Hot Pants," he said, letting his hands slide to her buttocks. "Because I think I still have some yang left, and you know what that means."

Her own heart rate kicked up a notch as he pulled her hips against his. "What?"

"I've got to acquire more yin – "

Some time later they lay, limbs entwined, in the hideous dragon bed. Their encore had been slower, more tender, but not one bit less satisfying. It had been a long time since she had been so spent. This yin/yang ratio was definitely an interesting concept. Twice for him meant – she blushed – several more for her. Yes, an interesting concept.

His breathing had been better the second round, and she stroked his chest as she listened to the soft snores, heavy and even. It was good to have him back, good to lie next to him and not worry about hurting him, good to feel his strength and know that it had not abandoned him yet, good to share the exquisite pleasure they had brought to each other for the past 37 years.

It was just plain good.

So she lay in his arms and smiled with the knowledge that Jed Bartlet was hers. And he would always be hers.

But not hers alone. Not anymore. Six years earlier he had taken a mistress: the Presidency. And now, neither of them would ever be completely free of that mistress again. But Abbey was a jealous lover. She would tolerate the mistress, would even cater to the mistress. For a while. For just a while.

But not too far into the future, that mistress would have to relinquish him into her grasp again. And she would be his only lover once more. And she vowed that nothing else would take him away from her for the time they had left. She knew they were blessed. She knew they had evaded the ticking clock more years than she would have guessed. Who knew how much longer they could? She had seen something in Charlie's eyes, something she would find out about soon enough. She wasn't blind. She had noticed the subtle changes, the occasional hesitations, the rub of a thigh, the squint of an eye.

But she decided she didn't resent that mistress anymore. By sharing him, she had allowed him to become the man he sought to be. Regardless of what happened, of how the final chapter turned out, Josiah Bartlet had done what he wanted to do.

He believed that the world could be changed. He determined to be the one to change it.

It could.

And he did.

Was it worth the price he had paid – or the one he would pay? They probably disagreed on the answer to that, but she couldn't deny that it was his destiny. That much had become apparent as soon as he took the oath of office.

So now, as she lay in the arms of this man who had altered the course of history, despite the uncertainty before them, she smiled. Because this was Jed. Her Jed. The same Jed who had accidentally run over Herb and Marjorie Douglas with his car. The same Jed who had crashed Leo's 4,000 bike into a tree in Jackson Hole. The same Jed who had visited all the national parks and tortured them all with inane statistics about obscure ancient civilizations. The same Jed who balanced his checkbook – and other peoples' checkbooks – just for fun.

The same Jed who had stayed on the line with a terrified radio operator on a tender ship while they listened to the doomed craft founder. The same Jed who joked his way through the trauma room at George Washington Hospital with a bullet wound through his abdomen. The same Jed who had met the world head on with the truth about his multiple sclerosis. The same Jed who had turned over the Presidency of the United States without hesitation in order to save his child. The same Jed who had almost single-handedly forged an impossible peace between Israel and Palestine. The same Jed who had transformed the relationship between East and West.

The same Jed who changed the world.

Her Jed.

And he always would be.

**END**

Lyrics from the song "Indiscreet"

Sammy Cahn

1958

"Indiscreet - it's indiscreet, to gaze at you - each time we meet.

I've told my eyes - they must disguise - this yearning.

Yes it's indiscreet - quite indiscreet, to find your touch - so bitter sweet.

You're close to me and suddenly I'm burning.

While I ask myself"Where is your pride" irresistibly I'm drawn to your side,

And (Yes) it's indiscreet - so indiscreet, but love is swift - and time is sweet,

And oh my dear - I crave the nearness of you.

To love you is why my heart must be - so love me - it can't be indiscreet."

"Mistress, there are portents abroad of magic and might,

And things that are yet to be done. Open the door!"

Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth

"On a Night of Snow"


End file.
